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1930 

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THE  WORKS  OF 
BOOTH  TARKINGTON 


; 


SEAWOOD  EDITION 


THIS  EDITION  IS  STRICTLY  LIMITED  TO  1075 
NUMBERED  AND  REGISTERED  COPIES  EACH 
WITH  A  PORTRAIT  SIGNED  BY  THE  AUTHOR 
IN  VOLUME  ONE. 

No _ 


by  Booth  Tarkinifton 


'i  ■ . 


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THE  WORKS  OF 


BOOTH  TARKINGTON 


WOMEN 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  DORAN  &  COMPANY,  INC. 

MCMXXVIII 


r'lit 


COPYRIGHT,  1925,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  Sc  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

COPTBIGHT,  1924,  1925,  BY  BOOTH  TABKINGTOM 

PHINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 
AT 

THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


eii> 

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^.11 

CONTENTS 
o 

^  Preamble . 

V 

CHAPTEB 

I.  Mrs.  Dodge  and  Mrs.  Cromwell 
vft  II.  A  Lady  Across  the  Street 

III.  Perversity  of  a  Telephone  . 

IV.  A  Great  Man’s  Wife . 

V.  One  of  Mrs.  Cromwell’s  Daughters 

VI.  Sallie  Ealing . 

VII.  Napoleon  Was  a  Little  Man 

VIII.  Mrs.  Dodge’s  Only  Daughter 

IX.  Mrs.  Dodge’s  Husband . 

X.  Lily’s  Almost  First  Engagement 

XI.  Mrs.  Cromwell’s  Youngest  Daughter 

XII.  Her  Happiest  Hour . 

XHI.  Heartbreak . 

XIV.  Mrs.  Dodge’s  Next-door  Neighbour 

XV.  Mrs.  Dodge  Declines  to  Tell  . 

XVI.  Mrs.  Leslie  Braithwaite’s  Husband 


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182 

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722573 


CONTENTS 


vi 

CHAPTEH  PAOIi 

XVII.  “Dolling” . 216 

XVIII.  Lily’s  Friend  Ada . 223 

XIX.  Parents  in  Darkness . 246 

XX.  Damsel  Dark,  Damsel  Fair  .  .  .  254 

XXI.  Mrs.  Cromwell’s  Niece  .  . '  .  .  263 

XXII.  Wallflower . 275 

XXIII,  The  Strange  Mirror . 290 

XXIV.  Transfiguration . 297 

XXV.  Glamour  Can  Be  Kept  ....  309 

XXVI.  Desert  Sand . 314 

XXVII.  Miraculous  Accident . 327 

XXVIII.  A  Public  Mockery . 345 

XXIX.  Mrs.  Cromwell’s  Oldest  Daughter  362 

XXX.  Mrs.  Cromwell’s  Sons-in-Law  .  .  400 

XXXI.  The  Anniversary  Dinner  .  .  .  .  410 


PREAMBLE 


But  why  not?”  Mrs,  Dodge  said,  leading  the 
“Discussion”  at  the  Woman’s  Saturday  Club 

after  the  reading  of  Mrs.  Cromwell’s  essay, 
“Women  as  Revealed  in  Some  Phases  of  Modern 

Literature.”  “Why  shouldn’t  something  of  the  actual 
life  of  such  women  as  ourselves  be  the  subject  of  a 
book?”  Mrs.  Dodge  inquired.  “Mrs.  Cromwell’s  pa¬ 
per  has  pointed  out  to  us  that  in  a  novel  a  study  of 
women  must  have  a  central  theme,  must  focus  upon  a 
central  figure  or  ‘heroine,’  and  must  present  her  as  a 
principal  participant  in  a  centralized  conflict  or  drama 
of  some  sort,  in  relation  to  a  limited  group  of  other 
‘characters.’  Now,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  my  own  life 
has  no  such  centralizations,  and  I’m  pretty  sure 
Mrs.  Cromwell’s  hasn’t,  either,  unless  she  is  to  be 
considered  merely  as  a  mother;  but  she  has  other 
important  relations  in  life  besides  her  relations  to  her 
three  daughters,  just  as  I  have  others  besides  that  I 
bear  to  my  one  daughter.  In  fact,  I  can’t  find  any 
central  theme  in  Mrs.  Cromwell’s  life  or  my  own;  I 
can’t  find  any  centralized  drama  in  her  life  or  mine. 


Vll 


VIU 


PREAMBLE 


and  I  doubt  if  many  of  you  can  find  such  things  in 
yours.  Our  lives  seem  to  be  made  up  of  apparently 
haphazard  episodes,  some  meaningless,  others  im¬ 
portant,  and  although  we  do  live  principally  with 
our  families  and  friends  and  neighbours,  I  find  that 
people  I  hardly  know  have  sometimes  walked  casually 
into  my  life,  and  influenced  it,  and  then  walked  out 
of  it  as  casually  as  they  came  in.  All  in  all,  I  can’t 
see  in  our  actual  lives  the  cohesion  that  Mrs.  Crom¬ 
well  says  is  the  demand  of  art.  It  appears  to  me 
that  this  very  demand  might  tend  to  the  damage  of 
realism,  which  I  take  to  mean  lifelikeness  and  to  be 
the  most  important  demand  of  all.  So  I  say:  Why 
shouldn’t  a  book  about  women,  or  about  a  type 
of  women,  take  for  its  subject  some  of  the  actual 
thoughts  and  doings  of  women  like  ourselves? 
Why  should  such  a  book  be  centralized  and  bound 
down  to  a  single  theme,  a  single  conflict,  a  single 
heroine?  The  lives  of  most  of  us  here  consist  prin¬ 
cipally  of  our  thoughts  and  doings  in  relation  to  our 
children,  our  neighbours,  and  the  people  who  casually 
walk  into  our  lives  and  our  children’s  and  neighbours’ 
lives  and  out  again.  It  seems  to  me  a  book  about  us 
should  be  concerned  with  all  of  these  almost  as  much 
as  with  ourselves.” 


PREAMBLE 


IX 


“You  haven’t  mentioned  husbands,”  Mrs.  Crom¬ 
well  suggested.  “Wouldn’t  they - ” 

“They  should  be  included,”  Mrs.  Dodge  admitted. 
“But  I  would  have  husbands  and  suitors  represented 
in  their  proper  proportion;  that  is  to  say,  only  in  the 
proportion  that  they  affect  our  thoughts  and  doings. 
In  challenging  the  rules  for  centralization  that  you 
have  propounded,  Mrs.  Cromwell,  I  do  not  propose 
that  all  rules  of  whatever  nature  should  be  thrown 
over.  One  in  particular  I  should  hold  most  advis¬ 
able.” 

“What  rule  is  it?”  a  member  of  the  club  inquired, 
for  at  this  point  Mrs.  Dodge  paused  and  the  expression 
of  her  mouth  was  somewhat  grim. 

“It  is  that  a  book  about  women  should  not  be  too 
long,”  Mrs.  Dodge  replied.  “Especially  if  it  should 
be  by  a  man,  he  would  be  wise  to  use  brevity  as  a 
means  of  concealing  what  he  doesn’t  know.  And 
besides,”  she  added,  more  leniently,  “by  brevity, 
he  might  hope  to  placate  us  a  little.  It  might  be 
his  best  form  of  apology.” 


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•; 


WOMEN 

V 

I 

MRS.  DODGE  AND  MRS.  CROMWELL 

WE  LEARNED  in  childhood  that  appear¬ 
ances  are  deceitful,  and  our  subsequent 
scrambling  about  upon  this  whirling  globe 
has  convinced  many  of  us  that  the  most  deceptive  of 
all  appearances  are  those  of  peace.  The  gentlest  look¬ 
ing  liquor  upon  the  laboratory  shelves  was  what  re¬ 
moved  the  east  wing  of  the  Chemical  Corporation’s 

building  on  Christmas  morning;  it  was  the  stillest 
Sunday  noon  of  a  drowsy  August  when,  without  even 
the  courtesy  of  a  little  introductory  sputtering,  the 
gas  works  blew  up;  and  both  of  these  disturbances 
were  thought  to  be  peculiarly  outrageous  because  of 
the  previous  sweet  aspects  that  prevented  any  one 
from  expecting  trouble.  Yet  those  aspects,  like  the 
flat  calm  of  the  summer  of  1914,  should  have  warned 
people  of  experience  that  outbreaks  were  impending. 
WTiat  could  offer  to  mortal  eye  a  picture  of  more 


2 


WOMEN 


secure  placidity  than  three  smiling  ladies  walking 
homeward  together  after  a  club  meeting?  The  par¬ 
ticular  three  in  mind,  moreover,  were  in  a  visibly 
prosperous  condition  of  life;  for,  although  the  after¬ 
noon  was  brightly  cold,  their  furs  afforded  proof  of 
expenditures  with  which  any  moderate  woman  would 
be  satisfied,  and  their  walk  led  them  into  the  most 
luxurious  stretch  of  the  long  thoroughfare  that  was 
called  the  handsome  suburb’s  finest  street.  The 
three  addressed  one  another  in  the  caressively  amia¬ 
ble  tones  that  so  strikingly  characterize  the  elite  of 
their  sex  in  converse;  and  their  topic,  which  had  been 
that  of  the  club  paper,  was  impersonal.  In  fact,  it 
was  more  than  impersonal,  it  was  celestial.  “Sweet¬ 
ness  and  Light:  Essay.  Mrs.  Roderick  Brooks 
Battle” — these  were  the  words  printed  in  the  club’s 
year  book  beneath  the  date  of  that  meeting,  and 
Mrs.  Roderick  Brooks  Battle  was  the  youngest  of 
the  three  placid  ladies. 

“You’re  all  so  sweet  to  say  such  lovely  things 
about  it,”  she  said,  as  they  walked  slowly  along.  “I 
only  wish  I  deserved  them,  but  of  course,  as  everyone 
must  have  guessed,  it  was  all  Mr.  Battle.  I  don’t 
suppose  I  could  write  a  single  connected  paragraph 
without  his  telling  me  how,  and  if  he  hadn’t  kept 


MRS.  DODGE  AND  MRS.  CROMWELL  3 


helping  me  I  just  wouldn’t  have  been  ready  with  any 
paper  at  all.  Never  in  the  world!” 

“Oh,  yes,  you  would,  Amelia,”  the  elder  of  the  two 
other  ladies  assured  her.  “For  instance,  dear,  that 
beautiful  thought  about  the  ‘bravery  of  silence’ — 
about  how  much  nobler  it  is  never  to  answer  an  at¬ 
tack — I  thought  it  was  the  finest  thought  in  the  whole 
paper,  and  I’m  sure  that  was  your  own  and  not  your 
husband’s,  Amelia.” 

“Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Cromwell,”  Mrs.  Battle  returned, 
and  although  her  manner  was  deferential  to  the 
older  woman  she  seemed  to  be  gently  shocked; — 
her  voice  became  a  little  protesting.  “I  could  never 
in  the  world  have  experienced  a  thought  like  that  just 
by  myself.  It  was  every  bit  Mr.  Battle’s.  In  fact,  he 
almost  as  much  as  dictated  that  whole  paragraph  to 
me,  word  for  word.  It  seemed  a  shame  for  me  to  sit 
up  there  and  appear  to  take  the  credit  for  it;  but  I 
knew,  of  course,  that  everybody  who  knows  us  the 
least  bit  intimately  would  understand  I  could  never 
write  anything  and  it  was  all  Mr.  Battle.” 

“My  dear,  you’ll  never  persuade  us  of  it,”  the  third 
lady  said.  “There  were  thoughts  in  your  paper  so 
characteristically  feminine  that  no  one  but  a  woman 
could  possibly - ” 


4 


WOMEN 


“Oh,  but  he  could!”  Mrs.  Battle  interrupted  with 
an  eagerness  that  was  more  than  audible,  for  it 
showed  itself  vividly  in  her  brightened  eyes  and  the 
sudden  glow  of  pink  beneath  them.  “That’s  one  of 
the  most  wonderful  things  about  Mr.  Battle:  his  in¬ 
tellect  is  just  as  feminine  as  it  is  masculine,  Mrs. 
Dodge.  He’s  absolutely — well,  the  only  way  I  can 
express  it  is  in  his  own  words.  Mr.  Battle  says  no 
one  can  be  great  who  isn’t  universal  in  his  thinking. 
And  you  see  that’s  where  he  excels  so  immensely; — 
Mr.  Battle  is  absolutely  universal  in  his  thinking.  It 
seems  to  me  it’s  one  of  the  great  causes  of  Mr.  Battle’s 
success;  he  not  only  has  the  most  powerful  reasoning 
faculties  I  ever  knew  in  any  man  but  he’s  absolutely 
gifted  with  a  woman’s  intuition.”  She  paused  to 
utter  a  little  murmur  of  fond  laughter,  as  if  she  herself 
had  so  long  and  helplessly  marvelled  over  Mr.  Battle 
that  she  tolerantly  found  other  people’s  incredulous 
amazement  at  his  prodigiousness  natural  but  amus¬ 
ing.  “You  see,  an  intellect  like  Mr.  Battle’s  can’t 
be  comprehended  from  knowing  other  men,  Mrs. 
Dodge,”  she  added.  “Other  men  look  at  things 
simply  in  a  masculine  way,  of  course.  Mr.  Battle 
says  that’s  only  seeing  half.  Mr.  Battle  says  women 
live  on  one  hemisphere  of  a  globe  and  men  on  the 


MRS.  DODGE  AND  MRS.  CROMWELL  5 

other,  and  neither  can  look  round  the  circle,  but 
from  the  stars  the  whole  globe  is  seen — so  that’s  why 
we  should  keep  our  eyes  among  the  stars!  I  wanted 
to  work  that  thought  into  my  paper,  too.  Isn’t  it 
beautiful,  the  idea  of  keeping  our  eyes  among  the 
stars But  he  said  there  wasn’t  a  logical  opening  for 
it,  so  I  didn’t.  Mr.  Battle  says  we  should  never  use 
a  thought  that  doesn’t  find  its  own  logical  place. 
That  is,  not  in  writing,  he  says.  But  don’t  you  think 
it’s  wonderful — that  idea  of  the  globe  and  the  two 
hemispheres  and  all.^” 

“Lovely,”  Mrs.  Dodge  agreed.  “Yet  I  don’t  see 
how  it  proves  Mr.  Battle  has  a  feminine  mind.” 

“Oh,  but  I  don’t  mean  just  that  alone,”  Mrs. 
Battle  returned  eagerly.  “It’s  the  thousand  and  one 
things  in  my  daily  contact  with  him  that  prove  it. 
Of  course,  I  know  how  hard  it  must  be  for  other 
women  to  understand.  I  suppose  no  one  could  hope 
to  realize  what  Mr.  Battle’s  mind  is  like  at  all  without 
the  great  privilege  of  being  married  to  him.” 

“And  that,”  Mrs.  Cromwell  remarked,  “has  been 
denied  to  so  many  of  us,  my  dear!” 

Mrs.  Dodge  laughed  a  little  brusquely,  but  the 
consort  of  the  marvellous  Battle  was  herself  so  mar¬ 
vellous  that  she  merely  looked  preoccupied.  “I 


6 


WOMEN 


know,”  she  said,  gravely,  while  Mrs.  Dodge  and  Mrs. 
Cromwell  stared  with  widening  eyes,  first  at  her  and 
then  at  each  other.  “How  often  I’ve  thought  of  it!” 
she  went  on,  her  own  eyes  fixed  earnestly  upon  the 
distance  where,  in  perspective,  the  two  curbs  of  the 
long,  straight  street  appeared  to  meet.  “It  grows 
stranger  and  stranger  to  me  how  such  a  miracle  could 
have  happened  to  a  commonplace  little  woman  like 
me!  I  never  shall  understand  why  I  should  have 
been  the  one  selected.” 

Thereupon,  having  arrived  at  her  own  gate,  it 
was  with  this  thought  that  she  left  them.  From  the 
gate  a  path  of  mottled  flagstones  led  through  a 
smooth  and  snowy  lawn  to  a  house  upon  which  the 
architect  had  chastely  indulged  his  Latin  pleasure  in 
stucco  and  wrought  iron;  and  as  Mrs'.  Battle  took 
her  way  over  the  flagstones  she  received  from  her 
two  friends  renewed  congratulations  upon  her  essay, 
as  well  as  expressions  of  parting  endearment;  and  she 
replied  to  these  cheerfully;  but  all  the  while  the 
glowing,  serious  eyes  of  the  eager  little  brown-haired 
woman  remained  preoccupied  with  the  miracle  she 
had  mentioned. 

Mrs.  Cromwell  and  Mrs.  Dodge  went  on  their  way 
with  some  solemnity,  and  were  silent  until  the  closing 


MRS.  DODGE  AND  MRS.  CROMWELL  7 


door  of  the  stucco  house  let  them  know  they  were  out 
of  earshot.  Then  Mrs.  Cromwell,  using  a  hushed 
voice,  inquired:  “Do  you  suppose  she  ever  had  a 
painting  made  of  the  Annunciation.^  ” 

“The  Annunciation?”  Mrs.  Dodge  did  not  follow 
her. 

“Yes.  When  the  miracle  was  announced  to  her 
that  she  should  be  the  wife  of  Roderick  Brooks  Battle. 
Of  course,  she  must  have  been  forewarned  by  an  angel 
that  she  was  ‘the  one  selected.’  If  Battle  had  just 
walked  in  and  proposed  to  her  it  would  have  been  too 
much  for  her!” 

“I  know  one  thing,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said,  emphati¬ 
cally.  “  I’ve  stood  just  about  as  much  of  her  everlast¬ 
ing  ‘Mr.  Battle  says’  as  I  intend  to!  You  can’t  go 
anywhere  and  get  away  from  it;  you  can  hear  it  over 
all  the  chatter  at  a  dinner;  you  can  hear  it  over  fifty 
women  gabbing  at  a  tea — ‘Mr.  Battle  says  this,’  ‘Mr. 
Battle  says  that,’  ‘Mr.  Battle  says  this  and  that’! 
When  Belloni  was  singing  at  the  Fortnightly  After¬ 
noon  Music  last  week  you  could  hear  her  ‘Mr.  Battle 
says’  to  all  the  women  around  her,  even  during  that 
loud  Puccini  suite,  and  she  treed  Belloni  on  his  way 
out,  after  the  concert,  to  tell  him  Mr.  Battle’s  theory 
of  music.  She  hadn’t  listened  to  a  note  the  man 


8 


WOMEN 


sang,  and  Belloni  understands  about  two  words  of 
English,  but  Amelia  kept  right  on  Mr.  Battle-says- 
ing  him  for  half  an  hour!  For  my  part,  I’ve  had  all 
I  can  stand  of  it,  and  I’m  about  ready  to  do  some¬ 
thing  about  it!” 

“I  don’t  see  just  what  one  could  do,”  Mrs.  Crom¬ 
well  said,  laughing  vaguely. 

“7  do !  ”  her  companion  returned.  Then  both  were 
silent  for  a  few  thoughtful  moments  and  wore  the 
air  of  people  who  have  introduced  a  subject  upon 
which  they  are  not  yet  quite  warm  enough  to  speak 
plainly.  Mrs.  Cromwell  evidently  decided  to  slide 
away  from  it,  for  the  time  being,  at  least.  “I  don’t 
think  Amelia’s  looking  well,”  she  said.  “  She’s  rather 
lost  her  looks  these  last  few  years,  I’m  afraid.  She 
seems  pretty  worn  and  thin  to  me; — ^she’s  getting  a 
kind  of  skimpy  look.” 

“What  else  could  you  expect?  She’s  made  herself 
the  man’s  slave  ever  since  they  were  married.  She 
was  his  valet,  his  cook,  and  his  washerwoman  night 
and  day  for  years.  I  wonder  how  many  times  actu¬ 
ally  and  literally  she’s  blacked  his  boots  for  him! 
How  could  you  expect  her  not  to  get  worn  out  and 
skimpy  looking?” 

“Oh,  I  know,”  Mrs.  Cromwell  admitted; — “but 


MRS.  DODGE  AND  MRS.  CROMWELL  9 


all  that  was  in  their  struggling  days,  and  she  certainly 
doesn’t  need  to  do  such  things  now.  I  hear  he  has 
twenty  or  thirty  houses  to  build  this  year,  and  just 
lately  an  immense  contract  for  two  new  office  build¬ 
ings.  Besides,  he’s  generous  with  her;  she  dresses 
well  enough  nowadays.” 

“Yes,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said,  grimly.  “They’d  both 
see  to  that  for  his  credit;  but  if  he  comes  in  with  wet 
feet  you  needn’t  tell  me  she  doesn’t  get  down  on  her 
knees  before  him  and  take  off  his  shoes  herself.  I 
know  her !  Yes,  and  I  know  him,  too !  Rich  or  poor, 
she’d  be  his  valet  and  errand  girl  just  the  same  as  she 
always  was.” 

“Perhaps,”  said  Mrs.  Cromwell.  “But  it  seems 
to  me  her  most  important  office  for  him  is  the  one 
she’s  just  been  filling,” 

“Press  agent.?  I  should  say  so!  She  may  stop 
blacking  his  boots,  but  she’ll  never  stop  that.  It’s 
just  why  she  makes  me  so  confounded  tired,  too! 
She  thinks  she’s  the  only  woman  that  ever  got 
married!” 

“Amelia  is  rather  that  way,”  the  other  said,  mus¬ 
ingly.  “She  certainly  never  seems  to  realize  that 
any  of  the  rest  of  us  have  husbands  of  our  own.” 

“ ‘Mr.  Battle  can’t  be  comprehended  from  knowing 


10 


WOMEN 


other  men!’”  Here  Mrs.  Dodge  somewhat  bitterly 
mimicked  the  unfortunate  Amelia’s  eager  voice. 
“‘Other  men  look  at  things  in  simply  a  masculine 
way ! ’  ‘I  know  how  hard  it  must  be  for  other  women 
to  understand  a  god  like  my  husband  just  from  know¬ 
ing  their  own  poor  little  imitation  husbands !’  ” 

“Oh,  no,”  Mrs.  Cromwell  protested.  “She  didn’t 
quite  say  that.” 

“But  isn’t  it  what  she  meant?  Isn’t  it  exactly 
what  she  felt?” 

“Well— perhaps.” 

“It  does  make  me  tired!”  Mrs.  Dodge  said,  vigor¬ 
ously,  and  with  the  repetition  she  began  to  be  more 
than  vigorous.  Under  the  spell  of  that  rancour  which 
increases  in  people  when  they  mull  over  their  injuries, 
she  began  to  be  indignant.  “For  one  thing,  outside 
of  the  shamelessness  of  it,  some  of  the  rest  of  us 
could  just  possibly  find  a  few  enthusiastic  things  to 
say  of  our  husbands  if  we  didn’t  have  some  regard 
for  not  boring  one  another  to  death!  I’ve  got  a 
fairly  good  husband  of  my  own  I’d  like  to  mention 
once  in  a  while,  but - ” 

“But,  of  course,  you’ll  never  get  the  chance,” 
Mrs.  Cromwell  interrupted.  “Not  if  Amelia’s  in 
your  neighbourhood  when  you  attempt  it.” 


MES.  DODGE  AND  MRS.  CROMWELL  11 


’‘What  I  canH  understand,  though,”  Mrs.  Dodge 
went  on,  “is  her  never  having  the  slightest  suspicion 
what  a  nuisance  it  is.  I  should  think  the  man  him¬ 
self  would  stop  her.” 

But  Mrs.  Cromwell  laughed  and  shook  her  head. 
“In  the  first  place,  of  course,  he  agrees  with  her. 
He  thinks  Amelia’s  just  stating  facts — facts  that 
ought  to  be  known.  In  the  second,  don’t  you  sup¬ 
pose  he  understands  how  useful  her  press-agenting  is 
to  him?” 

“But  it  isn’t.  It  makes  us  all  sick  of  him.” 

“Oh,  it  may  have  that  effect  on  you  and  me, 

Lydia,  but  I  really  wonder - ”  Mrs.  Cromwell 

paused,  frowning  seriously,  then  continued:  “Of 
course,  he’d  never  take  such  a  view  of  it.  He  instinc¬ 
tively  knows  it’s  useful,  but  he’d  never  take  the  view 
of  it  that - ” 

“The  view  of  it  that  what?”  Mrs.  Dodge  inquired, 
as  her  friend  paused  again. 

“Why,  that  it  may  be  actually  the  principal  reason 
for  his  success.  When  he  left  the  firm  that  employed 
him  as  a  draughtsman  and  started  out  for  himself, 
with  not  a  thing  coming  in  for  him  to  do,  don’t  you 
remember  that  even  then  everybody  had  the  impres¬ 
sion,  somehow,  that  he  was  a  genius  and  going  to  do 


12 


WOMEN 


wonders  when  the  chance  came?  How  do  you  sup¬ 
pose  that  got  to  be  the  general  impression  except 
through  Amelia’s  touting  it  about?  And  then,  when 
he  did  put  up  a  few  little  houses,  don’t  you  remember 
hearing  it  said  that  they  represented  the  first  real 
Architecture  with  a  capital  ‘A’  ever  seen  in  the  whole 
city?  Now,  almost  nobody  really  knows  anything 
about  architecture,  though  we  all  talk  about  it  as 
glibly  as  if  we  did,  and  pretty  soon — don’t  you  re¬ 
member? — we  were  all  raving  over  those  little  houses 
of  Roderick  Brooks  Battle’s.  What  do  you  suppose 
made  us  rave?  We  must  have  been  wrong,  because 
Amelia  says  now  that  Battle  thinks  those  first  houses 
of  his  were  ‘rather  bad’ — ^he’s  ‘grown  so  tremen¬ 
dously  in  his  art.’  Well,  since  they  were  bad,  what 
except  Amelia  made  us  think  then  that  they  were 
superb?  And  look  at  what’s  happened  to  Battle 
these  last  few  years.  In  spite  of  Amelia’s  boring  us 
to  death  about  him,  isn’t  it  true  that  there’s  somehow 
a  wide  impression  that  he’s  a  great  man?  Of  course 
there  is!” 

“And  yet,”  Mrs.  Dodge  interposed,  “he’s  not  done 
anything  that  proves  it.  Battle’s  a  good  architect, 
certainly,  but  there  are  others  as  good,  and  he’s  not 
a  bit  better  as  an  architect  than  Mr.  Cromwell  is  as  a 


MRS.  DODGE  AND  MRS.  CROMT\TELL  13 


lawyer  or  than  my  husband  is  as  a  consulting 
engineer.” 

“Not  a  bit,”  Mrs.  Cromwell  echoed,  carrying  on 
the  thought  she  had  been  following.  “But  Mr. 
Dodge  and  Mr.  Cromwell  haven’t  had  anybody  to 
go  about,  day  after  day  for  years,  proclaiming  them 
and  building  up  a  legend  about  them.  Nobody 
has  any  idea  that  they’re  great  men,  poor  things! 
Don’t  you  see  where  that  puts  you  and  me,  Lydia.^” 

“No,  I  don’t.” 

“My  dear!”  Mrs.  Cromwell  exclaimed.  “Why, 
even  Battle  himself  didn’t  know  that  he  was  a  great 
man  until  he  married  Amelia  and  she  believed  he  was 
— and  told  him  he  was — and  started  her  long  career 
of  going  about  making  everybody  else  sort  of  believe 
it,  too.” 

“I  think  it’s  simply  her  own  form  of  egoism,”  said 
the  emphatic  Mrs.  Dodge.  “She’d  have  done  ex¬ 
actly  the  same  whoever  she  married.” 

“Preeisely!  It’s  Amelia’s  way  of  being  in  love — 
she’s  a  born  idolizer.  But  you  didn’t  answer  me 
when  I  asked  you  where  that  puts  W5.” 

“You  and  me?”  Mrs.  Dodge  inquired,  frowning. 

“Don’t  you  see,  if  she’d  married  my  husband,  for 
instance,  instead  of  Battle,  everybody ’d  be  having 


14 


WOMEN 


the  impression  by  this  time  that  Mr.  Cromwell  is  a 
great  man?  He’d  have  felt  that  way  himself,  too, 
and  I’m  afraid  it  would  give  him  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure.  Haven’t  we  failed  as  wives  when  we  see 
what  Amelia’s  done  for  her  husband?” 

“What  an  idea!”  ' The  two  ladies  had  been  walk¬ 
ing  slowly  as  they  talked; — now  they  came  to  a  halt 
at  their  parting  place  before  Mrs.  Cromwell’s  house, 
which  was  an  important,  even  imposing,  structure 
of  the  type  called  Georgian,  and  in  handsome  con¬ 
ventional  solidity  not  unlike  the  lady  who  lived  in  it. 
Across  the  broad  street  was  a  newer  house,  one  just 
finished,  a  pinkish  stucco  interpretation  of  Mediter¬ 
ranean  gaiety,  and  so  fresh  of  colour  that  it  seemed 
rather  a  showpiece,  not  yet  actually  inhabited 
though  glamoured  with  brocaded  curtains  and  trans¬ 
planted  arbor  vitae  into  the  theatrical  semblance  of 
a  dwelling  in  use.  Mrs.  Dodge  glanced  across  at  it 
with  an  expression  of  disfavour.  “I  call  the  whole 
thing  perfectly  disgusting!”  she  said. 


II 


A  LADY  ACROSS  THE  STREET 

Mrs.  CROMWELL  also  looked  at  the  new 
house;  then  she  shook  her  head.  “It’s 
painful,  rather,”  she  said,  and  evidently 
referred  to  something  more  than  the  house  itself. 

“Outright  disgusting!”  her  friend  insisted.  “I 
suppose  he’s  there  as  much  as  ever?” 

“Oh,  yes.  Rather  more.” 

“Well,  I’ll  say  one  thing,”  Mrs.  Dodge  declared; 

“Amelia  Battle  won’t  get  any  sympathy  from  me!” 

“Sympathy?  My  dear,  you  don’t  suppose  she 

dreams  she  needs  sympathy!  Doesn’t  she  show  the 

rest  of  us  every  day  how  she  pities  us  because  we’re 

not  married  to  Roderick  Brooks  Battle?” 

“Yes,  and  that’s  what  makes  me  so  furious.  But 

she  will  need  sympathy,”  Mrs.  Dodge  persisted,  with 

a  dark  glance  at  the  new  house  across  the  street. 

“She  will  when  she  knows  about  that!” 

“But  maybe  she’ll  never  know.” 

“What!”  Mrs.  Dodge  laughed  scornfully.  “My 

15 


16 


WOMEN 


dear,  when  a  woman  builds  a  man  into  a  god  he’s 
going  to  assume  the  privileges  of  a  god.” 

“And  behave  like  the  devil.^” 

“Just  that,”  Mrs.  Dodge  returned,  grimly.  “Espe¬ 
cially  when  his  idolater  has  burnt  up  her  youth  on 
his  altar  and  her  friends  begin  to  notice  she’s  getting 
a  skimpy  look.  What  chance  has  a  skimpy-looking 
slave  against  a  glittering  widow  rich  enough  to  build 
a  new  house  every  time  she  wants  to  have  tete-a-tetes 
with  a  godlike  architect.?” 

“But  she’s  only  built  one,”  Mrs.  Cromwell  cried, 
protesting. 

“So  far!”  her  pessimistic  companion  said;  then 
laughed  at  her  own  extravagance,  and  became  serious 
again.  “I  think  Amelia  ought  to  know.” 

“Oh,  no!” 

“Yes,  she  ought,”  Mrs.  Dodge  insisted.  “In  the 
first  place,  she  ought  to  be  saved  from  making  herself 
so  horribly  ridiculous.  Of  course,  she’s  always  been 
ridiculous;  but  the  way  she  raves  about  him  when  he^s 
raving  about  another  woman — why,  it’s  too  ridicu¬ 
lous!  In  the  second  place,  if  she  knew  something 
about  the  Mrs.  Sylvester  affair  now  it  might  help 
her  to  bear  a  terrific  jolt  later.” 

“What  terrific  jolt,  Lydia.?” 


A  LADY  ACROSS  THE  STREET 


17 


“If  he  leaves  her,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said,  gravely.  “If 
Mrs.  Sylvester  decides  to  make  him  a  permanent 
fixture.  Men  do  these  things  nowadays,  you 
know.” 

“Yes,  I  know  they  do.”  Mrs.  Cromwell  looked 
as  serious  as  her  friend  did,  though  her  seriousness 
was  more  sympathetically  a  troubled  one  than  Mrs. 
Dodge’s.  “Poor  Amelia!  To  wear  her  youth  out 
making  a  man  into  such  a  brilliant  figure  that  a 
woman  of  the  Sylvester  type  might  consider  him 
worth  while  taking  away  from  her - ” 

*^LooJc!  ”  Mrs.  Dodge  interrupted  in  a  thrilled  voice. 

A  balustraded  stone  terrace  crossed  the  fagade  of 
the  new  house,  and  two  people  emerged  from  a  green 
door  and  appeared  upon  the  terrace.  One  was  a 
man  whose  youthful  figure  made  a  pleasing  accom¬ 
paniment  to  a  fine  and  scholarly  head; — ^he  produced, 
moreover,  an  impression  of  success  and  distinction 
obvious  to  the  first  glance  of  a  stranger,  though  what 
was  most  of  all  obvious  about  him  at  the  present 
moment  was  his  devoted,  even  tender,  attention  to 
the  woman  at  his  side.  She  was  a  tall  and  graceful 
laughing  creature,  so  sparklingly  pretty  as  to  ap¬ 
proach  the  contours  and  colours  of  a  Beauty.  Her 
rippling  hair  glimmered  with  a  Venetian  ruddiness. 


18 


WOMEN 


and  the  blue  of  her  twinkling  eyes  was  so  vivid  that  a 
little  flash  of  it  shot  clear  across  the  street  and  was 
perceptible  to  the  two  observant  women  as  brightest 
azure. 

Upon  her  lovely  head  she  had  a  little  sable  hat, 
and,  over  a  dress  of  which  only  a  bit  of  gray  silk 
could  be  glimpsed  at  throat  and  ankle,  she  wore  a 
sable  coat  of  the  kind  and  dimensions  staggering  to 
moderate  millionaires  She  had  the  happy  and 
triumphant  look  of  a  woman  confident  through  ex¬ 
perience  that  no  slightest  wish  of  hers  would  ever 
be  denied  by  anybody,  herself  distinctly  included; 
and,  all  in  all,  she  was  dazzling,  spoiled,  charming, 
and  fearless. 

Certainly  she  had  no  fear  of  the  two  observant 
women,  neither  of  their  opinion  nor  of  what  she 
might  give  them  cause  to  tell;  — that  sparkle  of  azure 
she  sent  across  the  intervening  street  was  so  care¬ 
lessly  amused  it  was  derisive,  like  the  half  nod  to 
them  with  which  she  accompanied  it.  She  and  her 
companion  walked  closely  together,  absorbed  in 
what  they  were  saying,  her  hand  upon  his  arm;  and, 
when  they  came  to  the  terrace  steps,  where  a  closed 
foreign  car  waited,  with  a  handsome  young  chauffeur 
at  the  wheel  and  a  twin  of  him  at  attention  beside 


A  LADY  ACROSS  THE  STREET 


19 


the  door,  she  did  a  thing  that  Mrs.  Dodge  and  Mrs. 
Cromwell  took  to  be  final  and  decisive. 

Her  companion  had  evidently  offered  some  light 
pleasantry  or  witticism  at  which  she  took  humorous 
offense,  for  she  removed  her  white-gloved  hand  from 
his  arm  and  struck  him  several  times  playfully  upon 
the  shoulder — but  with  the  last  blow  allowed  her 
hand  to  remain  where  it  was;  and,  although  she  might 
have  implied  that  it  was  to  aid  her  movement  into 
the  car,  the  white  fingers  could  still  be  seen  remaining 
upon  the  shoulder  of  the  man’s  brown  overcoat 
as  he,  moving  instantly  after  her,  took  his  seat  beside 
her  in  the  gray  velvet  interior.  Thus,  what  appeared 
to  be  a  playful  gesture  protracted  itself  into  a  caress, 
and  a  caress  of  no  great  novelty  to  the  participants. 

At  least,  it  was  so  interpreted  across  the  street, 
where  Mrs.  Dodge  gave  utterance  to  a  sound  vocal 
but  incoherent,  and  Mrs.  Cromwell  said  “Oh,  myV* 
in  a  husky  whisper.  The  French  car  glided  by  them, 
passing  them  as  they  openly  stared  at  it,  or  indeed 
glared  at  it,  and  a  moment  later  it  was  far  down  the 
street,  leaving  them  to  turn  their  glares  upon  each 
other. 

“That  settles  it,”  Mrs.  Dodge  gasped.  “It  ought 
to  have  been  a  gondola.” 


20 


WOMEN 


“A  gondola?” 

“A  Doge’s  wife  carrying  on  with  a  fool  poet  or 
something; — she  always  has  that  air  to  me.  What  a 
comedy !  ” 

Mrs.  Cromwell  shook  her  head;  her  expression  was 
of  grief  and  shock.  “It’s  tragedy,  Lydia.” 

“Just  as  you  choose  to  look  at  it.  The  practical 
point  of  view  is  that  it’s  going  to  happen  to  Amelia, 
and  pretty  soon,  too!  Some  day  before  long  that 
man’s  going  to  walk  in  and  tell  her  she’s  got  to 
step  aside  and  let  him  marry  somebody  else.  Doesn’t 
what  we  just  saw  prove  it?  That  woman  did  it 
deliberately  in  our  faces,  and  she  knows  we’re  friends 
of  his  wife’s.  She  deliberately  showed  us  she  didn’t 
care  what  we  saw.  And  as  for  him - ” 

“He  didn’t  see  us,  I  think,”  Mrs.  Cromwell 
murmured. 

^*See  us?  He  wouldn’t  have  seen  Amelia  herself 

if  she’d  been  with  us — and  she  might  have  been! 

_  ^ 

That’s  why  I  say  she  ought  to  know.” 

“Oh,  I  don’t  think  I’d  like  to - ” 

Somebody  ought  to,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said,  firmly. 
“Somebody  ought  to  tell  her,  and  right  away,  at 
that.  ” 


“Oh,  but 


A  LADY  ACROSS  THE  STREET 


21 

‘‘Oughtn’t  she  to  be  given  the  chance  to  prepare 
herself  for  what’s  coming  to  her?”  Mrs.  Dodge  asked, 
testily.  “She’s  made  that  man  think  he’s  Napoleon, 
and  so  she’s  going  to  get  what  Napoleon’s  wife  got. 
I  think  she  ought  to  be  warned  at  once,  and  a  true 
friend  would  see  to  it.” 

In  genuine  distress,  Mrs.  Cromwell  shrank  from 
the  idea.  “Oh,  but  I  could  never - ” 

“Somebody’s  got  to,”  Mrs.  Dodge  insisted,  im¬ 
placably.  “If  you  won’t,  then  somebody  else.” 

“Oh,  but  you — you  wouldn’t  take  such  a  respon¬ 
sibility,  would  you?  You — you  wouldn't,  would  you, 
Lydia?” 

,  The  severe  matron,  Lydia  Dodge,  thus  flutteringly 
questioned,  looked  more  severe  than  ever.  “I 
shouldn’t  care  to  take  such  a  burden  on  my  shoul¬ 
ders,”  she  said.  “Looking  after  my  own  burdens  is 
quite  enough  for  me,  and  it’s  time  I  was  on  my  way  to 
them.”  She  moved  in  departure,  but  when  she  had 
gone  a  little  way,  spoke  over  her  shoulder,  “jSowe- 
body’s  got  to,  though!  Good-bye.” 

Mrs.  Cromwell,  murmuring  a  response,  entered 
her  own  domain  and  walked  slowly  up  the  wide  brick 
path;  then  halted,  turned  irresolutely,  and  glanced 
to  where  her  friend  marched  northward  upon  the 


22 


WOMEN 


pavement.  To  Mrs.  Cromwell  the  outlines  of  Mrs. 
Dodge,  thus  firmly  moving  on,  expressed  something 

formidable  and  imminent.  “But,  Lydia - ”  the 

hesitant  lady  said,  impulsively,  though  she  knew 
that  Lydia  was  already  too  distant  to  hear  her.  Mrs. 
Cromwell  took  an  uncertain  step  or  two,  as  if  to 
follow  and  remonstrate,  but  paused,  turned  again,  and 
went  slowly  into  her  house. 

A  Idnd-hearted  soul,  and  in  a  state  of  sympathetic 
distress  for  Amelia  Battle,  she  was  beset  by  compas¬ 
sion  and  perplexity  during  what  remained  of  the 
afternoon;  and  her  husband  and  daughters  found  her 
so  preoccupied  at  the  dinner  table  that  they  accused 
her  of  concealing  a  headache.  But  by  this  time  what 
she  concealed  was  an  acute  anxiety;  she  feared  that 
Lydia’s  sense  of  duty  might  lead  to  action,  and  that 
the  action  might  be  precipitate  and  destructive.  For 
Mrs.  Cromwell  knew  well  enough  that  Amelia’s 
slavery  was  Amelia’s  paradise — the  only  paradise 
Amelia  knew  how  to  build  for  herself — and  paradises 
are,  of  all  structures,  the  most  perilously  fragile. 

Mrs.  Cromwell  was  the  more  fearful  because,  being 
a  woman,  she  understood  that  more  than  a  sense  of 
duty  would  impel  Lydia  to  action:  Lydia  herself 
might  interpret  her  action  as  the  prompting  of  duty, 


A  LADY  ACROSS  THE  STREET  23 


but  the  vital  incentive  was  likely  to  be  something 
much  more  human;  for  within  the  race  is  a  profound 
willingness  to  see  a  proud  head  lowered,  particularly 
if  that  head  be  one  that  has  displayed  its  pride. 
Amelia  had  displayed  hers  too  long  and  too  gallingly 
for  Lydia’s  patience; — ^Lydia  had  “really  meant  it,” 
Mrs.  Cromwell  thought,  recalling  the  fierceness  of 
Mrs.  Dodge’s  “I’ve  had  all  I  can  stand  of  it!”  that 
afternoon.  A  sense  of  duty  with  gall  behind  it  is 
indeed  to  be  feared;  and  the  end  of  Mrs.  Cromwell’s 
anxieties  was  the  conclusion  that  Amelia’s  paradise 
of  slavery  was  more  imminently  threatened  by  the 
virtuous  Lydia  than  by  that  gorgeous  pagan,  Mrs* 
Sylvester. 


Ill 


PERVERSITY  OF  A  TELEPHONE 

The  troubled  lady  began  to  wish  devoutly 
that  the  sight  of  Mrs.  Sylvester  caressing 
Mr.  Battle  had  not  shocked  her  into  a  flut¬ 
tering  and  indecisive  state  of  mind; — she  should  have 
discussed  the  event  more  calmly  with  Lydia;  should 
have  argued  against  anything  precipitate; — ^and  so, 
as  soon  as  she  could,  after  her  preoccupied  dinner, 
she  went  to  the  telephone  and  gave  Mrs.  Dodge’s 
number. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dodge  were  dining  in  town,  she  was 
informed;  they  were  going  to  the  theatre  afterward 
and  were  not  expected  to  return  until  midnight. 
This  blank  wall  at  once  increased  Mrs.  Cromwell’s 
inward  disturbance,  for  she  was  a  woman  readily 
tortured  by  her  imagination;  and  in  her  mind  she 
began  to  design  terrible  pictures  of  what  might  now 
be  happening  in  the  house  of  the  Battles.  Until 
she  went  to  the  telephone  she  thought  it  unlikely 
that  Lydia  had  acted  with  such  promptness;  but 

24 


PERVERSITY  OF  A  TELEPHONE  25 


after  receiving  through  the  instrument  the  informa¬ 
tion  that  no  information  was  to  be  had  for  the  pres¬ 
ent,  Mrs.  Cromwell  became  certain  that  Mrs.  Dodge 
had  already  destroyed  Amelia’s  peace  of  mind. 

She  went  away  from  the  telephone,  then  came  back 
to  it,  and  again  sat  before  the  little  table  that  bore 
it;  but  she  did  not  at  once  put  its  miraculous  powers 
into  operation.  Instead,  she  sat  staring  at  it, 
afraid  to  employ  it,  while  her  imaginings  became 
more  piteous  and  more  horrifying.  Amelia  had  no 
talk  except  “Mr.  Battle  says”;  she  had  no  thought 
except  “Mr.  Battle  thinks”;  she  had  no  life  at  all 
except  as  part  of  her  husband’s  life;  and  if  that 
were  taken  away  from  her,  what  was  left.^  She  had 
made  no  existence  whatever  of  her  own  and  for  her¬ 
self,  and  if  brought  to  believe  that  she  had  lost  him, 
she  was  annihilated. 

If  the  great  Battle  merely  died,  Amelia  could  live 
on,  as  widows  of  the  illustrious  sometimes  do,  to  be 
his  monument  continually  reinscribed  with  mourning 
tributes;  but  if  a  Venetian  beauty  carried  him  off  in  a 
gondola,  Amelia  would  be  so  extinct  that  the  act  of 
self-destruction  might  well  be  thought  gratuitous; — 
and  yet  Mrs.  Cromwell’s  imagination  pictured 
Amelia  in  the  grisly  details  of  its  commission  by  all 


26 


WOMEN 


the  usual  processes.  She  saw  Amelia  drown  herself 
variously;  saw  her  with  a  razor,  with  a  pistol,  with  a 
rope,  with  poison,  with  a  hat-pin. 

Naturally,  it  became  impossible  to  endure  such 
pictures,  and  Mrs.  Cromwell  tremulously  picked  up 
the  telephone,  paused  before  releasing  the  curved 
nickel  prong,  but  did  release  it,  and  when  a  woman’s 
voice  addressed  her,  “What  number,  please?”  she 
returned  the  breathless  inquiry:  “Is  that  you, 
Amelia?”  Then  she  apologized,  pronounced  a  num¬ 
ber,  and  was  presently  greeted  by  the  response: 
“Mr.  Roderick  Battle’s  residence.  Who  is  it, 
please?” 

“Mrs.  Cromwell.  May  I  speak  to  Mrs.  Battle?” 

“I  think  so,  ma’am.” 

In  the  interval  of  silence  Mrs.  Cromwell  muttered, 
“I  think  so”  to  herself.  The  maid  wasn’t  certain; — 
that  was  bad;  for  it  might  indicate  a  state  of  prostra¬ 
tion. 

“Yes?”  said  the  little  voice  in  the  telephone. 
“Is  it  Mrs.  Cromwell?” 

Mrs.  Cromwell  with  a  great  effort  assumed  her 
most  smiling  and  reassuring  expression.  “Amelia? 
Is  it  you,  Amelia?” 

“Yes.” 


PERVERSITY  OF  A  TELEPHONE  27 


‘T  just  wanted  to  tell  you  again  what  a  lovely 
impression  your  essay  made  on  me,  dear.  I’ve  been 
thinking  of  it  ever  since,  and  I  felt  you  might  like 
to  know  it.” 

“Thank  you,  Mrs.  Cromwell.” 

“Lydia  Dodge  and  I  kept  on  talking  about  it  after 
you  left  us  this  afternoon,”  Mrs.  Cromwell  continued, 
beaming  fondly  upon  the  air  above  the  telephone. 
“We  both  said  we  thought  it  was  the  best  paper 
ever  read  at  the  club.  I — I  just  wondered  if — if 
Lydia  called  you  up  to  tell  you  so,  too.  Did  she?” 

“No.  No,  she  didn’t  call  me  up.” 

“Oh,  didn’t  she?  I  just  thought  she  might  have 
because  she  was  so  enthusiastic.” 

“No.  She  didn’t.” 

Mrs.  Cromwell  listened  intently,  seeking  to  detect 
emotion  that  might  indicate  Amelia’s  state  of  mind, 
but  Amelia’s  voice  revealed  nothing  whatever.  It 
was  one  of  those  voices  obscured  and  dwindled  by 
the  telephone  into  dry  little  metallic  sounds;  language 
was  communicated,  but  nothing  more,  and  a  telegram 
from  her  would  have  conveyed  as  much  personal 
revelation.  “No,  Mrs.  Dodge  didn’t  call  me  up,” 
she  said  again. 

Mrs.  Cromwell  offered  some  manifestations  of 


28 


WOMEN 


mirth,  though  she  intended  them  to  express  a  tender 
cordiality  rather  than  amusement;  and  the  facial 
sweetness  with  which  she  was  favouring  the  air 
before  her  became  less  strained;  a  strong  sense  of 
relief  was  easing  her.  “Well,  I  just  thought  Lydia 
might,  you  know,”  she  said,  continuing  to  ripple 
her  gentle  laughter  into  the  mouthpiece.  “She  was 
so  enthusiastic,  I  just  thought - ” 

“No,  she  didn’t  call  me  up,”  the  small  voice  in  the 
telephone  interrupted. 

“Well,  I’m  gl - ”  But  Mrs.  Cromwell  checked 

herself  sharply,  having  begun  too  impulsively.  “I 
hope  I’m  not  keeping  you  from  anything  you  were 
doing,”  she  said  hastily,  to  change  the  subject. 

“No,  I’m  all  alone.  Mr.  Battle  is  spending  the 
evening  with  Mrs.  Sylvester.” 

“What!”  Mrs.  Cromwell  exclaimed,  and  her  al¬ 
most  convivial  expression  disappeared  instantly; 
her  face  became  a  sculpture  of  features  only.  “He 
is.?” 

“Yes.  He’s  finishing  the  interior  of  her  new  house. 

% 

With  important  clients  like  that  he  always  interprets 
them  into  their  houses  you  know.  He  makes  a  study 
of  their  personalities.” 

“I — see!”  Mrs.  Cromwell  said.  Then,  recovering 


PERVERSITY  OF  A  TELEPHONE  29 


herself,  she  was  able  to  nod  pleasantly  and  beam 
again,  though  now  her  beaming  was  rigidly  auto¬ 
matic.  “Well,  I  mustn’t  keep  you.  I  just  wanted 
to  tell  you  again  how  immensely  we  all  admired 
your  beautiful  essay,  and  I  thought  possibly  Lydia 
might  have  called  you  up  to  say  so,  too,  because  she 
fairly  raved  over  it  when  we  were - ” 

“No.”  The  metallic  small  voice  said;  and  it 
informed  her  for  the  fourth  time:  “She  didn’t  call  me 
up.”  Then  it  added:  “She  came  here.” 

“No!”  Mrs.  Cromwell  cried. 

“Yes.  She  came  here,”  the  voice  in  the  instru¬ 
ment  repeated. 

“Shed^.?” 

“Yes.  Just  before  dinner.  She  came  to  see  me.” 

“Oh,  my!”  Mrs.  Cromwell  murmured.  “What 
did  she  say.^” 

“She  was  in  great  trouble  about  Mr.  Dodge.” 
“What?” 

“She  was  in  a  tragic  state,”  the  impersonal  voice 
replied  with  perfect  distinctness.  “She  was  in  a 
tragic  state  about  her  husband.” 

“About  John  Dodge? Mrs.  Cromwell  cried. 

“Yes.  She  was  hurried  and  didn’t  have  time  to 
tell  me  any  details,  because  they  had  a  dinner  en- 


30 


WOMEN 


gagement  in  town,  and  he  kept  telephoning  her  they’d 
be  disgraced  if  she  didn’t  come  home  and  dress; 
but  that’s  what  she  came  to  see  me  about.  It  seems 
he’s  been  misbehaving  himself  over  some  fascinating 
and  unscrupulous  woman,  and  Mrs.  Dodge  thinks 
he  probably  intends  to  ask  for  a  divorce  and  abandon 
her.  She  was  in  a  most  upset  state  over  it,  of  course.” 

Amelia Mrs.  Cromwell  shouted  the  name  at 
the  mouthpiece. 

“Yes.  Isn’t  it  distressing?”  was  the  response. 
“Oh  course,  I  won’t  mention  it  to  anybody  but  you. 
I  supposed  you  knew  all  about  it  since  you’re  her 
most  intimate  friend.” 

Mrs.  Cromwell  made  an  effort  to  speak  coherently. 
“Let  me  try  to  understand  you,”  she  said.  “You  say 
that  Lydia  Dodge  came  to  you  this  afternoon - ” 

“It  was  really  evening,”  the  voice  interrupted,  in 
correction.  “Almost  seven.  And  their  engage¬ 
ment  was  in  town  at  half  past.  That’s  why  he  kept 
calling  her  up  so  excitedly.” 

“And  she  told  you,”  Mrs.  Cromwell  continued, 
“Lydia  Dodge  told  you  that  her  husband,  John 
Dodge,  was  philandering  with - ” 

“There  was  no  doubt  about  it  whatever,”  the 
voice  interrupted.  “Some  friends  of  hers  had  seen 


PERVERSITY  OP  A  TELEPHONE  SI 


an  actual  caress  exchanged  between  Mr.  Dodge  and 
the  other  woman.” 

^^Whatr 

“Yes.  That’s  what  she  told  me.” 

“Wait!”  Mrs.  Cromwell  begged.  “Lydia  Dodge 
told  you  that  John  Dodge - ” 

“Yes,”  the  voice  of  Amelia  Battle  replied  colour¬ 
lessly  in  the  telephone.  “It  seems  too  tragic,  and 
it  was  such  a  shock  to  me — I  never  dreamed  that 
people  of  forty  or  fifty  had  troubles  like  that — but 
it  was  what  she  came  here  to  tell  me.  Of  course, 
she  didn’t  have  time  to  tell  me  much,  because  she 
was  so  upset  and  Mr.  Dodge  was  in  such  a  hurry 
for  her  to  come  home.  I  never  dreamed  there  was 
anything  but  peace  and  happiness  between  them, 
did  you?” 

“No,  I  didn’t,”  gasped  Mrs.  Cromwell.  “But 
Amelia - ” 

“That’s  all  I  know  about  it,  I’m  afraid.” 

“Amelia - ” 

“Probably  she’ll  talk  about  it  to  you  pretty  soon,” 
Amelia  said,  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire.  “I’m  sur¬ 
prised  she  didn’t  tell  you  before  she  did  me;  you 
really  know  her  so  much  better  than  I  do.  I’m  afraid 
I’ll  have  to  go  now.  One  of  Mr.  Battle’s  assistants 


WOMEN 


3£ 

has  just  come  in  and  I’m  doing  some  work  with  him. 
It  was  lovely  of  you  to  call  me  up  about  the  little 
essay,  but,  of  course,  that  was  all  Mr.  Battle. 
Good-night.” 

Mrs.  Cromwell  sat  staring  at  the  empty  mechan¬ 
ism  in  her  hand  until  it  rattled  irritably,  warning 
her  to  replace  it  upon  its  prong. 


IV 

A  GREAT  man’s  WIFE 


SHE  had  a  restless  night,  for  she  repeatedly 
woke  up  with  a  start,  her  eyes  opening  widely 
in  the  darkness  of  her  bedroom;  and  each 
time  this  happened  she  made  the  same  muffled  and 

incomplete  exclamation:  “Well,  of  all - !”  Her 

condition  was  still  as  exclamatory  as  it  was  anxiously 
expectant  when,  just  after  her  nine-o’clock  breakfast 
the  next  morning,  she  went  to  her  Georgian  drawing¬ 
room  window  and  beheld  the  sterling  figure  of 
Mrs.  Dodge  in  the  act  of  hurrying  from  the  sidewalk 
to  the  Georgian  doorway.  Mrs.  Cromwell  ran  to  ad¬ 
mit  her;  brought  her  quickly  into  the  drawing  room. 
“Lydia!”  she  cried.  “What  on  earth  happened?** 
For,  even  if  telephones  had  never  been  invented, 
the  early  caller’s  expression  would  have  made  it 
plain  that  there  had  been  a  happening. 

“I’d  have  called  you  up  last  night,”  the  perturbed 

Lydia  began; — “but  we  didn’t  get  back  till  one 

33 


34 


WOMEN 


o’clock,  and  it  was  too  late.  In  all  my  life  I  never 
had  such  an  experience!” 

“You  don’t  mean  at  the  theatre  or - ” 

“No!”  Mrs.  Dodge  returned,  indignantly.  “I 
mean  with  that  woman !  ” 

“With  Amelia?” 

“With  Amelia  Battle.” 

“But  tell  me,”  Mrs.  Cromwell  implored.  “My 

dear,  I’ve  been  in  such  a  state  of  perplexity - ” 

“Perplexity!”  her  friend  echoed  scornfully,  and 
demanded:  “What  sort  of  state  do  you  think  Fve 
been  in?  My  dear,  I  went  to  her.” 

“To  Amelia?” 

“To  Amelia  Battle,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said.  “I  went 
straight  home  after  I  left  you  yesterday;  but  I  kept 

thinking  about  what  we’d  seen - ” 

“You  mean - ”  Mrs.  Cromwell  paused,  and 

glanced  nervously  through  the  glass  of  the  broad- 
paned  window  beside  which  she  and  her  guest  had 
seated  themselves.  Her  troubled  eyes  came  to  rest 
upon  the  pinkish  Italian  villa  across  the  street.  “You 
mean  what  we  saw — over  there?” 

“I  mean  what  was  virtually  an  embrace  between 
Roderick  Brooks  Battle  and  Mrs.  Sylvester  under  our 
eyes,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said  angrily.  “And  she  looked  us 


A  GREAT  MAN’S  WIFE 


35 


square  in  the  face  just  before  she  did  it!  I  also  mean 
that  both  of  them  showed  by  their  manner  that  such 
caresses  were  absolutely  familiar  and  habitual — and 
that  was  all  I  needed  to  prove  that  the  talk  about 
them  was  only  too  well  founded.  So,  when  I’d 
thought  it  over  and  over — Oh,  I  didn’t  act  in  haste  1 — 
I  decided  it  was  somebody’s  absolute  duty  to  prepare 
Amelia  for  what  I  plainly  saw  was  coming  to  her. 
Did  you  ever  see  anything  show  more  proprietorship 
than  Mrs.  Sylvester’s  fondling  of  that  man’s  shoul¬ 
der.^  So,  as  you  had  declared  you  wouldn’t  go,  and 
although  it  was  late,  and  Mr.  Dodge  and  I  had  an 
important  dinner  engagement,  I  made  up  my  mind 
it  had  to  be  done  immediately  and  I  went.” 

“But  what  did  you  tell  her?”  Mrs.  Cromwell 
implored. 

“Never,”  said  Mrs.  Dodge,  “never  in  my  life  have 
I  had  such  an  experience!  I  tried  to  begin  tactfully; 
I  didn’t  want  to  give  her  a  shock,  and  so  I  tried  to 
begin  and  lead  up  to  it;  but  it  was  difficult  to  begin  at 
all,  because  I’d  scarcely  sat  down  before  she  told  me 
my  husband  had  got  home  and  had  telephoned  to  see* 
if  I’d  reached  her  house,  and  he’d  left  word  for  me  to 
come  straight  back  home  because  he  was  afraid  we’d 
be  late  for  the  dinner — and  all  the  time  I  was  trying 


36 


WOMEN 


to  talk  to  her,  her  maid  kept  coming  in  to  say  he  was 
calling  up  again,  and  then  I’d  have  to  go  and  beseech 
him  to  let  me  alone  for  a  minute — ^but  he 
wouldn’t - ” 

Mrs.  Cromwell  was  unable  to  wait  in  patience 
through  these  preliminaries.  “Lydia!  What  did 
you  tell  her?” 

“I’m  trying  to  explain  it  as  well  as  I  can,  please,” 
her  guest  returned, irritably.  “If  I  didn’t  explain  how 
crazily  my  husband  kept  behaving  you  couldn’t  pos¬ 
sibly  understand.  He’d  got  it  into  his  head  that  we 
had  to  be  at  this  dinner  on  time,  because  it  was  with 
some  people  who  have  large  mining  interests  and - ” 

“Lydia,  what  did  you - ” 

“I  told  you  I  tried  to  be  tactful,”  said  Mrs.  Dodge, 
“I  tried  to  lead  up  to  it,  and  I’ll  tell  you  exactly  what 
I  said,  though  with  that  awful  telephone  interrupting 
every  minute  it  was  hard  to  say  anything  connect¬ 
edly!  First,  I  told  her  what  a  deep  regard  both  of 
us  had  for  her.” 

“Both  of  you?  You  mean  you  and  your  husbands 
Lydia?” 

“No,  you  and  me.  It  was  necessary  to  mention 
you,  of  course,  because  of  what  we  saw  yesterday 

“Oh,”  said  Mrs.  Cromwell.  “Well,  go  on.” 


A  GREAT  MAN’S  WIFE 


37 


“I  told  her,”  Mrs.  Dodge  continued,  complying. 
“I  said  nobody  could  have  her  interests  more  at 
heart  than  you  and  I  did,  and  that  was  why  I  had 
come.  She  thanked  me,  but  I  noticed  a  change 
in  her  manner  right  there.  I  thought  she  looked 
at  me  in  a  kind  of  bright-eyed  way,  as  if  she  were  on 
her  guard  and  suspicious.  I  thought  she  looked  like 
that,  and  now  I’m  sure  she  did.  I  said,  ‘Amelia,  I 
want  to  put  a  little  problem  to  you,  just  to  see  if  you 
think  I’ve  done  right  in  coming.’  She  said,  ‘Yes, 
Mrs.  Dodge,’  and  asked  me  what  the  problem  was.” 

“And  what  was  it,  Lydia.^” 

“My  dear,  will  you  let  me  tell  you.^  I  said  in  the 
kindest  way,  I  said,  ‘Amelia,  just  for  a  moment  let 
us  suppose  that  my  husband  were  not  true  to  me; 
suppose  he  might  even  be  planning  to  set  me  aside 
so  that  he  could  marry  another  woman;  and  suppose 
that  two  women  friends  of  mine,  who  had  my  inter¬ 
ests  dearly  at  heart,  had  seen  him  with  this  other 
woman;  and  suppose  her  to  be  a  fascinating  woman, 
and  that  my  friends  saw  with  their  own  eyes  that  my 
husband  felt  her  fascination  so  deeply  that  anybody 
could  tell  in  an  instant  he  was  actually  in  love  with 
her; — and,  more  than  that,’  I  said,  ‘suppose  that  these 
friends  of  mine  saw  my  husband  actually  exchanging 


38 


WOMEN 


a  caress  with  this  woman,  and  saw  him  go  off  driving 
with  her,  with  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  he 
showing  that  he  liked  it  there  and  was  used  to  having 
it  there; — Amelia,’  I  said,  ‘Amelia,  what  would  you 
think  about  the  question  of  duty  for  those  two 
friends  of  mine  who  had  seen  such  a  thing?  Amelia,’ 
I  said,  ‘wouldn’t  you  think  it  was  the  true  duty  of 
one  or  the  other  of  them  to  come  and  tell  me  and 
warn  me  and  give  me  time  to  prepare  myself?  ’  That’s 
what  I  said  to  her.” 

“And  what  did  she - ” 

“She  jumped  right  up  and  came  and  threw  her 
arms  around  me,”  said  Mrs.  Dodge  in  a  strained 
voice.  “I  never  had  such  an  experience  in  my  life!” 

“But  what  did  she  say?^^ 

“She  said,  ‘You  poor  thing! Mrs.  Dodge  ex¬ 
plained  irascibly.  “She  didn’t  ‘say’  it,  either;  she 
shouted  it,  and  she  kept  on  shouting  it  over  and  over. 
‘You  poor  thing  1^  And  when  she  wasn’t  saying 
that,  she  was  saying  she’d  never  dreamed  Mr.  Dodge 
was  that  sort  of  a  man,  and  she  made  such  a  commo¬ 
tion  I  was  afraid  the  neighbours  would  hear  her!” 

“But  why  didn’t  you - ” 

“I  did/”  Mrs.  Dodge  returned  passionately.  “I 
told  her  a  hundred  times  I  didn’t  mean  Mr.  Dodge; 


A  GREAT  MAN’S  WIFE 


39 


but  she  never  gave  me  a  chance  to  finish  a  word  I 
began;  she  just  kept  taking  on  about  what  a  terrible 
thing  it  must  be  for  me,  and  how  dreadful  it  was  to 
think  of  Mr.  Dodge  misbehaving  like  that — tell 
you  I  never  in  my  life  had  such  an  experience!” 

“But  why  didn’t  you  make  her  listen,  at  least  long 
enough  to - ” 

Mrs.  Dodge’s  look  was  that  of  a  person  badgered 
to  desperation.  “I  couldnHl  Every  time  I  opened 
my  mouth  she  shouted  louder  than  I  did!  She’d 
say,  ‘You  poor  thing!’  again,  or  some  more  about 
Mtc  Dodge,  or  she’d  want  to  know  if  I  didn’t  need 
ammonia  or  camphor,  or  she’d  offer  to  make  beef 
tea  for  me !  And  every  minute  my  husband  was  mak¬ 
ing  an  idiot  of  himself  ringing  the  Battles’  telephone 
again.  You  don’t  seem  to  understand  what  sort  of 
an  experience  it  was  at  all!  I  tell  you  when  I  finally 
had  to  leave  the  house  she  was  standing  on  their  front 
steps  shouting  after  me  that  she’d  never  tell  anybody 
a  thing  about  Mr.  Dodge  unless  I  wanted  her  to!” 

“It’s  so  queer!”  Mrs.  Cromwell  said,  bewildered 
more  than  ever.  “If  I’d  been  in  your  place  I  know 
I’d  never  have  come  away  without  making  her  un¬ 
derstand  I  meant  her  husband,  not  mine !  ” 

“‘Making  her  understand!’”  Mrs.  Dodge  re- 


40 


WOMEN 


peated,  mocking  her  friend’s  voice — so  considerable 
was  her  bitterness.  “You  goose!  You  don’t  sup¬ 
pose  she  didn’t  understand  that,  do  you?” 

“You  don’t  think - ” 

“Absolutely!  She  had  been  expecting  it  to 
happen.” 

“What  to  happen?” 

“Somebody’s  coming  to  warn  her  about  Mrs. 
Sylvester.  She  did  the  whole  thing  deliberately. 
Absolutely!  She  understood  I  was  talking  about 
Battle  as  well  as  you  do  now.  Of  course,”  said 
Mrs.  Dodge,  “of  course  she  understood!” 

Then  both  ladies  seemed  to  ponder,  and  for  a 
time  uttered  various  sounds  of  marvelling;  but  sud¬ 
denly  Mrs.  Cromwell,  whose  glance  had  wandered 
to  the  window,  straightened  herself  to  an  attentive 
rigidity.  Her  guest’s  glance  followed  hers,  and  in¬ 
stantly  became  fixed;  but  neither  lady  spoke,  for  a 
sharply  outlined  coincidence  was  before  them,  casting 
a  spell  upon  them  and  holding  them  fascinated. 

Across  the  street  a  French  car  entered  the  drive¬ 
way  of  the  stucco  house,  and  a  Venetian  Beauty 
descended,  wrapped  in  ermine  too  glorious  for  the 
time  and  occasion.  Out  of  the  green  door  of  the 
house  eagerly  came  upon  the  balustraded  terrace 


A  GREAT  MAN’S  WIFE 


41 


a  dark  man,  poetic  and  scholarly  in  appearance, 
dressed  scrupulously  and  with  a  gardenia,  like  a 
bridegroom’s  flower,  in  his  coat.  In  his  hand  he  held 
an  architect’s  blue  print;  but  for  him  and  for  the 
azure-eyed  lady  in  ermine  this  blue  print  seemed 
not  more  important,  nor  less,  than  that  book  in  which 
the  two  lovers  of  Rimini  read  no  more  one  day. 
They  glanced  but  absently  at  the  blue  print;  then 
the  man  let  it  dangle  from  his  hand  while  he  looked 
into  the  lady’s  eyes  and  she  into  his;  and  they  talked 
with  ineffable  gentleness  together. 

Here  was  an  Italian  episode  most  romantic  in  its 
elements:  a  Renaissance  terrace  for  the  trysting 
place  of  a  Renaissance  widow  and  a  great  man,  two 
who  met  and  made  love  under  the  spying  eyes  of 
female  shirri  lurking  in  a  window  opposite;  but  it  was 
Amelia  Battle  who  made  the  romantic  episode  into  a 
realistic  coincidence.  In  a  vehicle  needful  of  cleans¬ 
ing  and  polish  she  appeared  from  down  the  long 
street,  sitting  in  the  attentive  attitude  necessary 
for  the  proper  guidance  of  what  bore  her,  and  wearing 
(as  Mrs.  Cromwell  hoarsely  informed  Mrs.  Dodge) 
“her  market  clothes.”  That  she  was  returning 
from  a  market  there  could  be  no  doubt;  Amelia  had 
herself  this  touch  of  the  Renaissance,  but  a  Renais- 


42  WOMEN 

sance  late,  northern,  and  robust.  Both  of  the  rear 
windows  of  her  diligent  vehicle  framed  still-life  stud¬ 
ies  to  lure  the  brush  of  sixteenth-  and  seventeenth- 
century  lowland  painters:  the  green  tops  of  sheaved 
celery  nodded  there;  fat  turnips  reposed  in  baskets; 
purple  ragged  plumes  of  beets  pressed  softly  against 
the  glass;  jugs  that  suggested  buttermilk  and  cider, 
perhaps  both,  snugly  neighboured  the  hearty  vege¬ 
tables,  and  made  plain  to  all  that  the  good  wife  in  the 
forward  seat  had  a  providing  heart  for  her  man  and 
her  household. 

The  ladies  in  the  Georgian  window  were  truly 
among  those  who  cared  to  look.  “Oh,  my.'”  Mrs. 
Cromwell  whispered. 

Amelia  stopped  her  market  machine  and  jumped 
out  in  her  market  clothes  at  the  foot  of  the  drive¬ 
way,  where  stood  Mrs.  Sylvester’s  French  car  in 
the  care  of  its  two  magnificent  young  men.  There 
was  an  amiable  briskness,  cheerful  and  friendly,  in  the 
air  with  which  Amelia  trotted  up  the  terrace  steps 
and  joined  the  romantic  couple  standing  beside  the 
balustrade.  The  three  entered  into  converse. 

Mrs.  Cromwell  and  Mrs.  Dodge  became  even  more 
breathless;  and  then,  with  amazement,  and  perhaps  a 
little  natural  disappointment,  they  saw  that  the 


A  GREAT  MAN’S  WIFE  43 

conversation  was  not  acrimonious — at  least,  not 
outwardly  so.  They  marked  that  Amelia,  smiling, 
took  the  lead  in  it,  and  that  she  at  once  set  her  hand 
upon  her  husband’s  arm — and  in  a  manner  of  owner¬ 
ship  so  masterful  and  complete  that  the  proprietor¬ 
ship  assumed  by  Mrs.  Sylvester  in  the  same  gesture, 
the  preceding  day,  seemed  in  comparison  the  tem¬ 
porary  claim  of  a  mere  borrower.  And  Mrs.  Crom¬ 
well  marked  also  a  kind  of  feebleness  in  the  attitude 
of  the  Venetian  Beauty:  Mrs.  Sylvester  was  smiling 
politely,  but  there  was  a  disturbed  petulance  in  her 
smile.  Suddenly  Mrs.  Cromwell  perceived  that 
beside  Amelia,  for  all  Amelia’s  skimpiness,  Mrs. 
Sylvester  looked  ineffective.  With  that,  glancing  at 
the  sturdy  figure  of  Lydia  Dodge,  Mrs.  Cromwell 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  since  Amelia  had  been 
too  much  for  Lydia,  Amelia  would  certainly  be  too 
much  for  Mrs.  Sylvester. 

“Look!”  said  Lydia. 

Amelia  and  her  husband  were  leaving  the  terrace 
together.  Battle  walked  to  the  “sedan”  with  her 
and  held  the  door  open  for  her;  she  climbed  to  the 
driver’s  seat  and  seemed  to  wait,  with  assurance, 
for  him  to  do  more  than  hold  the  door.  And  at  this 
moment  the  seriousness  of  his  expression  was  so 


44 


WOMEN 


emphasized  that  it  was  easily  visible  to  the  Georgian 
window,  though  only  his  profile  was  given  to  its  view 
as  he  looked  back,  over  his  shoulder,  at  the  glazing 
smile  of  the  lady  upon  the  terrace.  He  seemed  to 
waver,  hesitating;  and  then,  somewhat  bleakly, 
he  climbed  into  the  “sedan”  beside  his  wife. 

“Open  itr*  Mrs.  Dodge  was  struggling  with  a 
catch  of  the  Georgian  window. 

“What  for?” 

“She’s  shouting  again!  I’ve  got  to  hear  her!” 
Mrs.  Dodge  panted;  and  the  window  yielded  to  her 
exertions. 

Amelia’s  attitude  showed  that  she  was  encouraging 
her  machine  to  begin  operations,  while  at  the  same 
time  she  was  calling  parting  words  to  Mrs.  Sylvester. 
“Good-bye!”  Amelia  shouted.  “Mr.  Battle  says 
he’s  been  so  inspired  by  your  sympathy  in  his  work! 
Mr.  Battle  says  that’s  so  necessary  to  an  architect! 
Mr.  Battle  says  no  artist  can  ever  even  hope  to  do 
anything  great  without  it!  Mr.  Battle  says - ” 

But  here,  under  the  urging  of  her  foot,  the  engine 
burst  into  a  shattering  uproar:  ague  seized  the  car 
with  a  bitter  grip ;  convulsive  impulses  of  the  appara¬ 
tus  to  leap  at  random  were  succeeded  by  more 


A  GREAT  MAN’S  WIFE 


45 


decorous  ideas,  and  then  the  “sedan”  moved  mildly 
forward;  the  vegetables  nodded  affably  in  the  win¬ 
dows,  and  the  Battles  were  borne  from  sight. 

“I  see,”  said  Lydia  Dodge,  moving  back  to  her 
chair.  “I  understand  now.” 

“You  understand  what?”  her  hostess  inquired, 
brusquely,  as  she  closed  the  Georgian  window. 

“I  understand  what  I  just  saw.  I  can’t  tell  you 
exactly  how  or  why,  but  it  was  plainly  there — in 
Roderick  Brooks  Battle’s  look,  in  his  slightest  gesture. 
We  were  absolutely  mistaken  to  think  it  possible. 
He’ll  never  ask  Amelia  to  step  aside:  he’ll  never 
leave  her.  And  however  much  he  philanders, 
she'll  never  leave  him^  either.  She’ll  go  straight  on 
the  way  she’s  always  gone.  He's  shown  us  that, 
and  she's  shown  us  that.” 

“Well,  then,”  Mrs.  Cromwell  inquired;  “why  is 
it?  You  say  you  understand.” 

“It’s  because  he  knows  that  between  his  Venetian 
romance  and  his  press  agent  he’s  got  to  take  the 
press  agent.  He’s  had  sense  enough  to  see  he 
mightn’t  be  a  great  man  at  all  without  his  press 
agent — and  he’d  rather  keep  on  being  a  great  man. 
And  Amelia  knows  she’s  getting  too  skimpy-looking 


46 


WOMEN 


to  get  a  chance  to  make  a  great  man  out  of  anybody 
else;  so  she  wouldn’t  let  me  tell  her  about  him,  be¬ 
cause  she’s  going  to  stick  to  him!” 

At  this  Mrs.  Cromwell  made  gestures  of  negation 
and  horror,  though  in  the  back  of  her  mind,  at  that 
moment,  she  was  recalling  her  yesterday’s  thought 
that  Lydia’s  sense  of  duty  was  really  Lydia’s  pique. 
“Lydia  Dodge!”  she  cried,  “I  won’t  listen  to  you! 
Don’t  you  know  you’re  taking  the  lowest,  unchris- 
tianest,  vilest  possible  view  of  human  nature.^” 

Mrs.  Dodge  looked  guilty,  but  she  decided  to 
offer  a  plea  in  excuse.  “Well,  I  suppose  that  may  be 
true,”  she  said.  “But  sometimes  it  does  seem  about 
the  only  way  to  understand  people!” 


V 

ONE  OF  MRS.  Cromwell’s  daughters 


IN  THE  spacious  suburb’s  most  opulent  quarter, 
where  the  houses  stood  in  a  great  tract  of  shrub¬ 
beries,  gardens,  and  civilized  old  woodland 
groves,  there  were  many  happily  marriageable  girls; 
and  one,  in  particular,  was  supremely  equipped  in 
this  condition,  for  she  had  what  the  others  described 
as  “the  best  of  everything.”  In  the  first  place,  they 
said,  Anne  Cromwell  had  “looks”;  in  the  second 
place,  she  had  “money,”  and  in  the  third  she  had 
“family,”  by  which  they  meant  the  background 
prestiges  of  an  important  mother  and  several  genera¬ 
tions  of  progenitors  aflOiuently  established  upon  this 
soil. 

Sometimes  they  added  a  word  or  two  about  her 

manners,  though  a  middle-aged  listener  might  not 

have  divined  that  the  allusion  was  to  manners. 

“She  manages  wonderf’ly,”  they  said.  Amiably 

reserved,  and  never  an  eager  contestant  in  the 

agonizing  little  competitions  that  necessarily  engage 

47 


48 


WOMEN 


maidens  of  her  age,  she  was  not  merely  fair  but 
generous  to  her  rivals.  “She  can  afford  to  be!” 
they  cried,  thus  paying  tribute.  Her  fairness  pre¬ 
vailed,  too,  among  her  suitors :  not  one  could  say  she 
favoured  him  more  than  another;  but  like  a  young 
princess,  as  politic  as  she  was  well  bred  and  genuinely 
kind,  she  showed  an  impartial  friendliness  to  every¬ 
body. 

Even  without  her  background  she  was  the  most 
noticeable  young  figure  in  the  suburb,  but  never  be¬ 
cause  she  did  anything  to  make  herself  conspicuous. 
At  the  Green  Hills  Country  Club  the  eye  of  a 
stranger,  watching  the  dancing  on  a  summer  night, 
would  not  immediately  distinguish  an  individual 
from  the  mass.  As  the  dancers  went  lightly  inter¬ 
weaving  over  the  floor  of  a  roofless  pavilion,  where 
the  foliage  of  great  beech  trees  hung  trembling 
above  white  balustrades  and  Venetian  lamps,  the 
spectator’s  flrst  glance  from  the  adjoining  veranda 
caught  only  the  general  aspect  of  carnival:  the 
dancers  were  like  a  confusion  of  gaily  coloured 
feathers  blowing  and  whirlpooling  across  a  dim 
tapestry.  But  presently,  as  he  looked,  rhythms  and 
shifting  designs  would  appear  in  the  sparkling  fluc¬ 
tuation;  points  of  light  would  separate  themselves. 


ONE  OF  MRS.  C.’S  DAUGHTERS  49 


taking  individual  contour,  and  the  brightest  would 
be  a  lovely  girl’s  head  of  ‘‘gold  cooled  in  moon¬ 
light.” 

Then  it  would  be  observed  that  toward  this 
bright  head  darker  ones  darted  and  zigzagged 
through  the  crowd  more  frequently  than  toward  any 
other,  as  the  ardent  youths  plunged  to  “cut  in”; 
and  when  the  music  stopped  the  lovely  girl  was  not 
for  an  instant  left  to  the  single  devotion  of  her 
partner.  Other  girls,  as  well  as  the  young  men, 
flocked  about  her,  and  wherever  she  moved  there 
seemed  to  be  something  like  a  retinue.  Thus  the 
first  question  of  the  stranger,  looking  on,  came  to  be 
expected  as  customary — almost  inevitable,  “Who  is 
that?”  The  reply  was  as  invariable,  delivered  with 
the  amused  condescension  of  a  native  receiving 
tribute  to  his  climate  or  public  monuments.  “That’s 
what  visitors  always  ask  first.  It’s  Anne  Crom¬ 
well.” 

Mrs.  Cromwell,  sitting  among  contemporaries  on 
the  veranda  that  overlooked  the  dancing  floor,  had 
often  heard  both  the  question  and  the  answer,  and 
although  she  was  one  of  those  mothers  known  as 
“sensible,”  she  never  heard  either  without  a  natural 
thrill  of  pride.  But  she  was  tactful  enough  to  con- 


50 


WOMEN 


ceal  her  feeling  from  the  mothers  of  other  girls,  and 
usually  laughed  deprecatingly,  implying  that  she 
knew  as  well  as  any  one  how  little  such  ephemeral 
things  signified.  Anne  had  her  own  deprecating 
laughter  for  tributes,  and  the  most  eager  flatterer 
could  not  persuade  her  to  the  air  of  accepting  them 
seriously;  so  that  both  mother  and  daughter,  ap¬ 
pearing  to  set  no  store  by  Anne’s  triumphs,  really 
made  them  all  the  more  secure.  It  was  a  true 
instinct  guiding  them,  the  same  that  prevailed  with 
Csesar  when  thrice  he  refused  the  crown;  for  what 
hurts  our  little  human  hearts,  when  we  watch  a 
competitor’s  triumph,  is  his  pride  and  his  pleasure  in 
it.  If  he  can  persuade  us  that  it  brings  him  neither 
we  will  not  grudge  it  to  him,  but  may  help  him  to 
greater. 

Moreover,  both  Anne  and  her  mother  believed 
themselves  to  be  entirely  genuine  in  their  depreca¬ 
tion  of  Anne’s  preeminence,  and,  when  they  were 
alone  together,  talked  tributes  over  with  the  same 
modest  laughter  they  had  for  them  in  company. 
Yet  Mrs.  Cromwell  never  omitted  to  tell  Anne  of 
any  stranger’s  “Who  is  that?”  nor  of  all  the  other 
pleasing  things  said  to  her,  or  in  her  hearing,  of  her 
daughter.  And,  on  her  own  part,  Anne  laughed  and 


ONE  OF  MRS.  C.’S  DAUGHTERS  51 


told  of  the  like  things  that  had  been  said  to  her,  oi 
that  she  had  overheard. 

“Of  course,  it  doesn’t  mean  anything,”  she  would 
add.  “I  just  thought  I’d  tell  you.” 

For  the  truth  was  that  Anne’s  triumphs  were  the 
breath  of  life  to  both  mother  and  daughter,  and  they 
were  doomed  to  make  the  ancient  discovery  that  our 
dearest  treasures  are  those  that  are  threatened. 

The  threat  was  perceived  by  Mrs.  Cromwell  upon 
one  of  those  summer  nights  so  exquisite  that  we  call 
them  “unreal,”  because  they  belong  to  perished 
romance,  and  we  have  learned  to  imagine  that  what 
is  real  must  be  unlovely.  Only  the  relics  of  a  dis¬ 
credited  sentimental  epoch  could  go  forth  under  the 
gold-pointed  canopy  of  such  a  night,  and  sigh  because 
the  stars  are  ineffable.  Mrs.  Cromwell  was  such  a 
relic,  and,  being  in  remote  attendance  upon  her 
daughter  at  the  country  club,  she  had  gone  after 
dinner  to  walk  alone  upon  the  links  in  the  star¬ 
light.  In  an  old-fashioned  mood,  she  naturally 
wanted  to  get  away  from  the  dance  music  of  the 
open-air  pavilion;  but,  when  she  returned,  her 
shadow  from  the  rising  moon  preceded  her,  and  she 
decided  that  even  the  tomtoms  and  war  horns  of  the 
young  people’s  favourite  “orchestra”  could  never 


52 


WOMEN 


entirely  ruin  the  moon.  Then,  instead  of  joining 
any  of  the  groups  upon  the  veranda,  she  went  to  an 
easy  chair,  aloof  in  a  shadowy  corner,  where  she 
could  see  the  dancers  and  be  alone  to  watch  Anne. 

She  looked  down  a  little  wistfully.  Only  a  year 
or  so  ago  she  had  thus  watched  her  oldest  daughter, 
Mildred,  now  a  matron,  and  in  time  she  would 
probably  see  her  youngest,  the  schoolgirl,  Cornelia, 
dancing  here.  But  Anne,  though  the  mother  strove 
not  to  know  it,  was  her  dearest,  and  the  period  of 
eligible  maidenhood,  like  any  other  period,  is  not 
long.  Mrs.  Cromwell  was  wistful  because  she 
thought  it  would  not  be  really  long  before  Anne 
might  sit  here  to  watch  the  maiden  dancing  of  a 
daughter  of  her  own. 

/ 

The  pavilion  was  a  little  below  the  level  of  the 
veranda,  and  almost  at  once  her  eye  found  the 
dominant  fair  head  it  sought.  Anne  was  talking  as 
she  danced,  smiling  serenely,  a  graceful  young  figure, 
shapely  and  tall,  with  a  hint  of  the  contented  ample¬ 
ness  that  would  come  later,  as  it  had  come  to  her 
mother.  Mrs.  Cromwell,  seeing  Anne’s  smile,  smiled 
too,  in  her  seclusion,  and  with  the  same  serenity; 
though  an  enemy  might  have  said  that  these  two 
smiles  partook  of  the  same  complacency.  How- 


ONE  OF  MRS.  C.’S  DAUGHTERS  53 

ever,  at  that  moment  Mrs.  Cromwell  could  not  have 
imagined  the  existence  of  an  enemy;  she  had  no 
conception  that  there  could  be  in  the  world  such  a 
thing  as  an  enemy  to  herself  or  to  her  daughter. 

She  was  a  little  sorry  that  Anne  wasn’t  dancing 
with  young  Harrison  Crisp.  She  liked  to  see  Anne 
dancing  with  any  “nice  boy,”  but  best  of  all  with 
young  Crisp,  and  this  was  not  only  because  the  two 
were  harmoniously  matched  as  dancers,  as  well  as  in 
other  ways,  but  because  the  mother  had  compre¬ 
hended  that  this  young  man  might  prove  to  be  her 
daughter’s  preference  for  more  than  dancing.  Mrs. 
Cromwell  was  not  anxious  to  see  Anne  married;  she 
wished  her  to  prolong  the  pretty  time  of  girlhood; 
but  any  mother  must  have  been  pleased  to  see  so 
splendid  a  young  man  place  himself  at  her  daughter’s 
disposal.  Mrs.  Cromwell  wondered  where  he  was 
this  evening,  and  she  had  just  begun  to  look  for  him 
among  the  dancers  when  strangers  intruded  upon 
her  retreat. 

She  heard  unfamiliar  voices  behind  her,  and  then 
a  small  group  of  middle-aged  people  drew  up  wicker 
chairs  to  the  veranda  railing  that  overlooked  the 
dancing-floor.  Mrs.  Cromwell  gave  them  a  side 
glance  and  perceived  that  they  were  visitors,  “put 


54 


WOMEN 


up”  at  the  club,  for  this  was  an  organization  closely 
guarded,  and  she  knew  all  of  the  members.  The 
newcomers  sat  near  her,  and  though  she  would  have 
preferred  her  seclusion  to  remain  secluded,  she  could 
not  help  waiting,  with  a  little  motherly  satisfaction, 
to  hear  them  speak  of  her  Anne,  as  strangers  in¬ 
evitably  must. 

And  presently  she  smiled  in  the  darkness,  thinking 
herself  rewarded;  for  a  man’s  voice,  deeply  impressed, 
inquired:  “Who  is  that  wonderful  girl?” 

In  the  light  of  the  moment’s  impending  revela¬ 
tion,  the  mother’s  smile  upon  Mrs.  Cromwell’s  half- 

/ 

parted  lips,  as  she  waited  for  the  reply,  becomes 
a  little  pathetic. 

“Why,  it’s  Sallie,  of  course!” 

This  strange  answer  arrested  Mrs.  Cromwell’s 
smile,  of  which  reluctant  and  mirthless  vestiges 
remained  for  a  moment  or  two  before  vanishing  into 
the  contours  that  mark  an  astounded  disapproval. 
Then  she  slowly  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  these 
queer  visitors,  and  her  strong  impression  was  that  the 
two  middle-aged  women  and  their  escort,  a  stout 
elderly  man  in  white  flannels,  were  “very  ordinary 
looking  people.” 

Their  chairs  were  within  a  dozen  feet  of  hers,  but 


ONE  OF  MRS.  C.’S  DAUGHTERS  55 


they  sat  in  profile  to  her,  and  possibly  were  unaware 
of  her,  or  were  aware  of  her  but  vaguely.  For 
strangers  in  a  strange  place  are  often  subject  to 
such  an  illusion  of  detachment  as  these  displayed, 
and  seem  to  feel  that  they  may  speak  together  as 
freely  as  if  they  alone  understood  language.  But,  of 
course,  to  Mrs.  Cromwell’s  way  of  thinking,  the 
greater  illusion  of  the  present  group  was  in  believing 
that  somebody  named  Sallie  was  a  wonderful  girl. 
She  failed  to  identify  this  pretender:  none  of  her 
friends  had  a  daughter  named  Sallie,  and  Anne  had 
never  spoken  of  any  Sallie. 

‘T  declare  I  didn’t  recognize  her!”  the  elderly 
man  said,  chuckling.  “Who’d  have  thought  it? 
Sallie!” 

The  woman  who  sat  next  him  laughed  trium¬ 
phantly.  ‘T  don’t  wonder  you  didn’t  recognize 
her,”  she  said.  ‘Tt’s  six  years  since  you  saw  her, 
and  she  was  only  fourteen  then.  I  guess  she’s 
changed  some — what?” 

“Well,  ‘some’!”  he  agreed.  “She  makes  the  rest 
of  ’em  look  like  flivvers.” 

The  second  of  the  two  women  tapped  his  head 
with  her  fan.  “George,  I  guess  you  never  thought 
you’d  be  the  uncle  of  a  peach  like  that!” 


56 


WOMEN 


“Well,  I’m  not  as  surprised  to  be  the  uncle  of  a 
peach,”  he  said,  with  renewed  chuckling,  “as  I  am  to 
see  you  the  aunt  of  one!  I’m  kind  of  surprised  to 
have  Jennie,  here,  turn  out  to  be  the  mother  of  one, 
too.  You  certainly  never  showed  any  such  style 
as  that  when  you  were  young,  Jennie!  Why,  there 
ain’t  a  girl  in  that  whole  bunch  to  hold  a  candle  to 
her!  She’s  a  two-hundred-carat  blazer  and  makes 
the  rest  of  ’em  look  like  what  you  see  on  a  ten-cent- 
store  counter!  You  heard  me  yourselves:  the  very 
first  thing  I  said  was,  ‘Who  is  that  wonderful  girl?’ 
And  I  didn’t  even  know  it  was  Sallie.  I  guess  that 
shows !” 

Sallie’s  mother  laughed  excitedly.  “Oh,  we’re 
used  to  it,  George!  She’s  never  gone  a  place  these 
last  three  years  she  didn’t  put  it  all  over  the  other 
girls  in  two  shakes  of  a  lamb’s  tail!  The  boys  go 
crazy  over  her  as  soon  as  they  see  her,  even  the  ones 
that  are  engaged  to  other  girls,  and  a  few  that  are 
married  to  the  other  girls,  too!  We’ve  had  some 
funny  times,  I  tell  you,  George!” 

“I  expect  so!”  he  chuckled.  “I  guess  you’re 
fixing  for  her  to  pick  a  good  one,  all  right,  Jennie!” 

“She  don’t  need  me  to  do  any  fixing  for  her,” 
Sallie’s  mother  explained,  gaily.  “She’s  got  a 


ONE  OF  MRS.  C.’S  DAUGHTERS  57 


mighty  good  head  on  her,  and  I  guess  she  knows  she 
can  choose  anything  she  decides  she  wants.  Look 
at  her  now.”  She  laughed  in  loud  triumph  as  she 
spoke,  and  pointed  to  the  pavilion. 

Mrs.  Cromwell’s  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  the 
pointing  forefinger  and  saw  a  stationary  nucleus 
among  the  swirl  of  dancers — a  knot  of  young  men 
gathered  round  a  girl  and  engaged  in  obvious  expostu¬ 
lation.  The  disagreement  was  so  pronounced,  in 
fact,  as  to  resemble  a  dispute;  for  it  involved  more 
gesturing  than  is  usually  displayed  in  the  mere  argu¬ 
ments  of  members  of  the  northern  races; — “cutting 
in”  to  dance  with  this  girl  was  apparently  a  serious 
matter. 

She  was  a  laughing,  slender  creature,  with  hints  of 
the  glow  of  rubies  in  the  corn-silk  brown  of  her  hair; 
and  the  apple-green  thin  silk  of  her  sparse  dancing 
dress  was  the  right  complement  for  her  dramatic  vivid¬ 
ness.  Brilliant  eyed,  her  face  alive  with  little  ecstasies 
of  merriment  as  the  debaters  grew  more  and  more 
emphatic,  she  might  well  have  made  an  observer 
think  of  “laughing  April  on  the  hills” — an  April  with 
July  in  her  hair  and  a  ring  of  solemn  young  fauns  dis- 
puting  over  her. 

She  did  not  allow  their  disagreement  to  reach  a 


58 


WOMEN 


crisis,  however,  though  the  fauns  were  so  earnest  as 
to  seem  to  threaten  one; — she  placed  a  slim  hand 
upon  the  shoulder  of  her  interrupted  partner,  whose 
arm  had  been  all  the  while  tentatively  about  her 
waist,  and  began  to  dance  with  him.  But  over  her 
shoulder  as  she  went,  she  flung  a  look  and  a  word  to 
the  defeated,  who  dispersed  thoughtfully,  with  the  air 
of  men  not  by  any  means  abandoning  their  ambi¬ 
tions. 

Then  the  coronal  of  ruby-sprinkled  hair  was  seen 
shuttling  rhythmically  among  the  dancers;  and 
such  a  glowing  shuttle  the  eye  of  a  spectator  must 
follow.  This  pagan  April  with  her  flying  grace  in 
scant  apple-green  emerged  from  the  other  dancers  as 
the  star  emerges  from  the  other  actors  in  a  play; 
and  only  mothers  of  other  girls  could  have  failed  to 
perceive  that  any  stranger’s  first  question  must 
inevitably  be,  “Who  is  that?*^ 

Mrs.  Cromwell  had  no  such  perception; — her 
glance,  a  little  annoyed,  sought  her  daughter  and 
easily  found  her.  Anne  was  dancing  with  young 
Hobart  Simms,  long  her  most  insignificant  and 
humblest  follower.  Mrs.  Cromwell  thought  of 
him  as  “one  of  the  nice  boys”;  but  she  also  thought 
of  him  as  “poor  little  Hobart,”  for  only  two  things 


ONE  OF  MUS.  C.’S  DAUGHTERS  59 


distinguished  him,  both  unfortunate.  His  father 
had  lately  failed  in  business,  so  that  of  all  the  “nice 
boys,”  Hobart  was  the  poorest;  but,  what  was  more 
to  the  point  in  Mrs.  Cromwell’s  reflections  just  then, 
of  all  the  “nice  boys”  he  was  the  shortest.  He  was 
at  least  four  inches  shorter  than  Anne,  and  it  seemed 
to  the  mother  that  the  contrast  in  height  made  Anne 
look  too  large  and  somehow  too  placid.  Mrs.  Crom¬ 
well  wanted  Anne  to  be  kind,  but  she  decided  to 
warn  her  against  dancing  with  Hobart:  there  are 
contrasts  that  may  bring  even  the  most  graceful 
within  the  danger  of  looking  a  little  ridiculous. 

Anne  was  at  her  best  when  she  danced  with  the 
tall  and  romantically  dark  Harrison  Crisp;  but  un¬ 
fortunately  this  delinquent  had  been  discovered:  he 
was  the  triumphing  partner  who  had  carried  off  the 
young  person  called  Sallie.  Mrs.  Cromwell  might 
have  put  it  the  other  way,  however:  she  might  have 
looked  upon  the  episode  as  the  carrying  off  of  young 
Crisp  by  this  froward  Sallie. 

Sallie’s  mother  appeared  to  take  this  view,  herselh 
“Look  at  that!”  she  cried.  “Look  at  the  state  she’s 
got  that  fellow  in  she’s  dancing  with!  Look  at  the 
way  he’s  looking  at  her,  will  you!”  And  again  she 
gave  utterance  to  the  loud  and  excitedly  triumphant 


60 


WOMEN 


laugh  that  not  only  offended  the  ears  of  Mrs.  Crom¬ 
well  but  disquieted  her  more  than  she  would  have 
thought  possible,  half  an  hour  earlier.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  she  had  never  before  heard  so  offensive  a 
laugh. 

“Did  you  ever  see  anything  to  beat  it?”  Sallie’s 
mother  inquired  hilariously.  “He  looks  at  her  that 
way  the  whole  time — except  when  she’s  dancing 
with  somebody  else.  Then  he  stands  around  and 
looks  at  her  as  if  he  had  an  awful  pain!  She’s  got 
him  so  he  won’t  dance  with  anybody  else.  It’s  a 
scream!”  And  here,  in  her  mirthful  excitement,  she 
slapped  the  stout  uncle’s  knee;  for  Sallie’s  mother 
made  it  evident  that  she  was  one  of  those  who  re¬ 
peat  their  own  youth  in  the  youth  of  a  daughter, 
and  perhaps  in  a  daughter’s  career  fulfil  their  own 
lost  ambitions.  She  became  more  confidential, 
though  her  confidential  air  was  only  a  gesture;  she 
leaned  toward  her  companions,  but  did  not  take  the 
trouble  to  lower  her  voice. 

“He’s  been  to  the  house  to  see  her  four  times 
since  Monday.  Last  week  he  had  her  auto  riding 
every  single  afternoon.  The  very  day  he  met  her 
he  sent  her  five  pounds  of - ” 


ONE  OF  MRS.  C.’S  DAUGHTERS  61 


“Who  is  he?”  the  uncle  inquired.  “He’s  a  fine 
looking  fellow,  all  right,  but  is  he - ” 

Sallie’s  mother  took  the  words  out  of  his  mouth. 
“7^  he?”  she  cried.  “I  guess  you’ll  say  he  is!  Crisp 
Iron  Works,  and  his  father’s  made  him  first  vice- 
president  and  secretary  already — only  two  years 
out  of  college!” 

“Sallie  like  him?” 

“She’s  got  ’em  all  going,”  the  mother  laughed; — 
“but  he’s  the  king.  I  guess  she  don’t  mind  keeping 
him  standing  on  his  head  awhile  though!”  Again 
she  produced  the  effect  of  lowering  her  voice  with¬ 
out  actually  lowering  it.  “They  say  he  was  sort  of 
half  signed  up  for  somebody  else.  When  we  first 
came  here  you  couldn’t  see  anything  but  this  Anne 
Cromwell.  She’s  one  of  these  highbrow  girls — col¬ 
lege  and  old  family  and  everything — and  you’d 
thought  she  was  the  whole  place.  Sallie  only 
needed  about  three  weeks!”  And  with  that  Sallie’s 
mother  was  so  highly  exhilarated  that  she  must 
needs  slap  George’s  knee  once  more.  “Sallie’s  got 
her  in  the  back  row  to-night,  where  she  belongs!” 

The  aunt  and  uncle  joined  laughter  with  her,  and 
were  but  vaguely  aware  that  the  lady  near  them  had 


62 


WOMEN 


risen  from  her  easy  chair.  She  passed  by  them* 
bestowing  upon  them  a  grave  look,  not  prolonged. 

“Who’s  all  that?”  the  stout  uncle  inquired,  when 
she  had  disappeared  round  a  corner  of  the  veranda. 
“Awful  big  dignified  looking  party,  Fd  call  her,”  he 
added.  “Who  is  she?” 

“There’s  a  lot  of  that  highbrow  stuff  around  here,” 
said  Sallie’s  mother; — “but,  of  course,  I  don’t  get 
acquainted  as  fast  as  Sallie.  I  don’t  know  who  she 
is,  but  probably  I’ll  meet  her  some  day.” 

If  Mrs.  Cromwell  had  overheard  this  she  might 
have  responded,  mentally,  “Yes — at  Philippi!” 
For  it  could  be  only  on  the  field  of  battle  that  she 
would  consent  to  meet  “such  rabble.”  She  said  to 
herself  that  she  dismissed  them  and  their  babblings 
permanently  from  her  mind;  and,  having  thus  dis¬ 
missed  them,  she  continued  to  think  of  nothing  else. 

Her  old-fashioned  mood  was  ruined;  so  was  the 
moon,  and  so  was  her  evening.  She  went  home 
early,  and  sent  her  car  back  to  wait  for  Anne. 


VI 


SALLIE  EALING 


IT  DID  not  wait  so  long  as  it  usually  did :  Anne 
came  home  early,  too,  at  eleven;  though  the 
dancing  would  go  on  until  one,  and  it  was  her 
habit  to  stay  as  long  as  the  musicians  did.  Distant 
throbbings  of  dance  music  from  across  the  links  came 
in  at  the  girl’s  open  window  as  she  undressed  in  her 
pretty  room;  but  she  listened  without  pleasure,  for 
perhaps  she  felt  something  unkind  in  these  faraway 
sounds  to-night — something  elfish  and  faintly  jeering. 

Her  mother,  coming  in,  and  smiling  as  she  always 
did  when  she  came  for  their  after-the-party  talks, 
saw  that  Anne  looked  serious:  her  eyes  were  grave 
and  evasive. 

“Did  you  get  tired — or  anything,  Anne,^” 

“It  wasn’t  very  exciting — just  the  same  old  crowd 
that  you  always  see  there,  week  after  week.  I 
thought  I  might  as  well  get  to  bed  a  little  early.” 

“That’ll  please  your  father,”  Mrs.  Cromwell  as¬ 
sured  her.  “I  noticed  you  danced  several  times 

63 


64 


WOMEN 


with  young  Hobart  Simms.  You  were  dancing  with 
him  when  I  left,  I  think.” 

“Yes.f^”  Anne  said,  inquiringly,  but  she  did  not 
look  toward  her  mother.  She  stood  facing  her 
dressing-table,  apparently  preoccupied  with  it.  “I 
shouldn’t?” 

“‘Shouldn’t?’”  Mrs.  Cromwell  echoed,  laughing 
indulgently.  “He’s  commonplace,  perhaps,  but  he’s 
a  nice  boy,  and  everybody  admires  the  plucky  way 
he’s  behaved  about  his  father’s  failure.  I  only 
thought - ”  she  hesitated. 

“Yes?” 

“I  only  thought — well,  he  is  a  little  shorter  than 
you - ” 

“I  see,”  Anne  said;  and  with  that  she  turned  eyes 
starry  with  emotion  full  upon  her  mother.  The  look 
was  almost  tragic,  but  her  voice  was  gentle.  “Did 
we  seem — ridiculous?” 

“No,  indeed!  Not  at  all.” 

“I  think  we  did,”  Anne  murmured  and  looked 
down  at  the  dressing-table  again.  “Well — it  doesn’t 
matter.” 

“Don’t  be  so  fanciful,”  Mrs.  Cromwell  said. 
“You  couldn’t  look  ridiculous  under  any  circum¬ 
stances,  Anne.” 


SALLIE  EALING 


65 


“I  understand,”  said  Anne.  “You  don’t  think 
I  danced  with  Hobart  Simms  because  I  wanted  to, 
do  you.  Mother?” 

“No,  it  was  because  you’re  kind,”  Mrs.  Cromwell 
returned,  comfortingly;  then  continued,  in  a  casual 
way,  “It  just  happened  you  were  with  poor  little 
Hobart  during  the  short  time  I  was  looking  on.  I 
suppose  you  weren’t  too  partial  to  him,  dear.  You 
danced  with  all  the  rest  of  the  customary  besiegers, 
didn’t  you?” 

“Oh,  I  suppose  so,”  Anne  said,  wearily.  In 
profile  to  her  mother,  she  stood  looking  down  upon 
the  dressing-table,  her  hands  moving  among  little 
silver  boxes  and  trumperies  of  ivory  and  jade  and 
crystal;  but  those  white  and  shapely  hands,  adored 
by  the  mother,  were  doing  nothing  purposeful  and 
were  only  pretending  to  be  employed — a  signal  to 
mothers  that  daughters  wish  to  be  alone  but  do  not 
know  how  to  put  the  wish  into  tactful  words.  Mrs. 
Cromwell  understood;  but  she  did  not  go. 

“I’m  glad  you  danced  with  all  of  ’em,”  she  said. 
“You  did  dance  with  them  all,  did  you,  Anne?” 

“I  guess  so.” 

“I’m  glad,”  the  mother  said  again,  and  then,  as  in 
a  musing  afterthought,  she  added,  “I  only  looked 


66  WOMEN 

on  for  a  little  while.  I  suppose  Harrison  was 
there?” 

The  daughter’s  hands  instantly  stopped  moving 
among  the  pretty  trifles  on  the  dressing-table;  she 
was  still  from  head  to  foot;  but  she  spoke  in  a  care¬ 
less  enough  tone.  “Harrison  Crisp?  Yes.  He 
was  there.”  And  then,  as  if  she  must  be  scrupulously 
honest  about  this  impression,  she  added,  “At  least, 
I  think  he  was.” 

“Oh!”  Mrs.  Cromwell  exclaimed,  enlightened. 
“Anne,  didn’t  you  dance  with  him  at  all?” 

“With  Harrison?”  the  girl  asked,  indifferently. 
“No;  I  don’t  believe  I  did,  now  I  come  to  think  of 
it.” 

“Didn’t  he  ask  you  at  all?” 

Anne  turned  upon  her  with  one  of  those  little 
gasps  that  express  the  exasperated  weariness  of  a  per¬ 
son  who  makes  the  same  explanation  for  the  hun- 
dreth  time.  “Mother!  If  he  didn’t  ask  me,  isn’t 
that  the  same  as  not  asking  me  ‘at  all’?  What’s 
the  difference  between  not  dancing  with  a  person 
and  not  dancing  with  him  ‘at  all’?  What’s  the 
use  of  making  such  a  commotion  about  it?  Dear 
me!” 

The  unreasonableness  of  this  attack  might  have 


SALLIE  EALING  67 

hurt  a  sensitive  mother;  but  Mrs.  Cromwell  was  hurt 
only  for  her  daughter: — petulance  was  not  ‘‘like” 
Anne,  and  it  meant  that  she  was  suffering.  Mrs. 
Cromwell  was  suffering,  too,  but  she  did  not  show  it. 

“What  in  the  world  was  Harrison  doing  all  eve¬ 
ning?”  she  asked.  “It  seems  strange  he  didn’t  come 
near  you.” 

“There’s  no  city  ordinance  compelling  every 
man  in  this  suburb  to  ask  me  to  dance.  I  don’t 
know  what  he  was  doing.  Dancing  with  that  girl 
from  nowhere,  probably.” 

“With  whom?” 

“Nobody  you  know,”  Anne  returned,  impatiently. 
“A  girl  that’s  come  here  lately.  He  seemed  to  be 
unable  to  tear  himself  away  from  her  long  enough  to 
even  say  ‘How-dy-do’  to  anybody  else.  He’s  mak¬ 
ing  rather  an  exhibition  of  himself  over  her,  they 
say.” 

“I  heard  something  of  the  kind,”  her  mother  said, 
frowning.  She  seated  herself  in  a  cushioned  chair 
near  the  dressing-table.  “Is  she  a  commonish  girl 
named  Sallie  something?” 

“Yes,  she  is,”  Anne  replied,  and  added  bitterly: 
“Very!”  Having  reached  this  basis,  they  found 
that  they  could  speak  more  frankly;  and  both  of 


68 


WOMEN 


them  felt  a  little  relief.  Anne  sat  down,  facing 
her  mother.  “She’s  a  perfectly  horrible  girl,  Mother 
— and  that’s  what  he  seems  to  like!” 

“I  happened  to  hear  a  little  about  her,”  Mrs. 
Cromwell  said.  “I  noticed  some  relatives  of  hers 
who  were  there — her  mother  was  one — and  they 
were  distinctly  what  we  call  ‘common.’  I  was  so 
surprised  to  find  such  people  put  up  as  guests  at  the 
club  that  before  I  came  home  I  asked  some  questions 
about  them.  The  mother  and  daughter  have  come 
here  to  live,  and  they’re  apparently  quite  well-to-do. 
Their  name  is  Ealing,  it  seems.” 

“Yes,”  said  Anne.  “Sallie  Ealing.” 

“What  surprised  me  most,”  Mrs.  Cromwell  con¬ 
tinued,  “I  learned  that  they’d  not  only  been  given 
guests’  cards  for  the  club,  but  had  actually  been  put 
up  for  membership.” 

“Yes,”  Anne  said  huskily.  “It’s  Harrison.  He 
did  it  himself  and  he’s  got  about  a  dozen  people  to 
second  them.  Several  of  the  girls  thought  it  their 
duty  to  tell  me  about  that  to-night.” 

“You  poor,  dear  child!”  the  mother  cried;  but 
her  compassion  had  an  unfortunate  effect,  for  the 
suave  youthful  contours  of  the  lovely  face  before  her 
were  at  once  threatened  by  the  malformations  of 


SALLIE  EALING 


69 


anguish:  Anne  seemed  about  to  cry  vociferously, 
like  a  child.  She  got  the  better  of  this  impulse, 
however;  but  she  stared  at  her  mother  with  a 
luminous  reproach;  and  the  light  upon  the  dressing- 
table  beside  her  shone  all  too  brightly  upon  her 
lowered  eyelids,  where  liquid  glistenings  began  to  be 
visible. 

“Oh,  Mamma!”  she  gasped.  “What’s  the  matter 
with  me.?” 

“The  matter  with  you?”  her  mother  cried. 
“You’re  perfect,  Anne!  What  do  you  mean?” 

Anne  choked,  bit  her  lip,  and  again  controlled 
herself,  except  for  the  tears  that  kept  forming 
steadily  and  sliding  down  from  her  eyes  as  she 
spoke.  “I  mean,  why  do  I  mind  it  so  much?  Why 
do  I  care  so  about  what’s  happening  to  me  now?  I 
never  minded  anything  in  my  life  before,  that 
I  remember.  I  was  sorry  when  Grandpa  died,  but  I 
didn’t  feel  like  this.  Have  I  been  too  happy?  Is 
it  a  punishment?” 

Her  mother  seized  her  hands.  “‘Punishment’? 
No!  You  poor  lamb,  you’re  making  much  out  of 
nothing.  Nothing’s  happened,  Anne.” 

“Oh,  but  it  has!”  Anne  cried,  and  drew  her 
hands  away.  “You  don’t  know.  Mamma!  It’s 


70 


WOMEN 


been  coming  on  ever  since  that  girl  first  came  to 
one  of  the  summer  dances,  a  month  ago!  Mamma, 
to-night,  if  it  hadn’t  been  for  little  Hobart  Simms, 
there  were  times  when  I’d  have  been  stranded! 
Absolutely!  It’s  such  a  horribly  helpless  feeling. 
Mamma.  I  never  knew  what  it  was  before — but  I 
know  now!” 

“But  you  werenH  ‘stranded,’  dear,  you  see.” 

“I  might  have  been  if  I  hadn’t  come  away,” 
Anne  said,  and  her  tears  were  heavier,  “Mamma, 
what  can  I  do?  It’s  so  unfair!’' 

“You  mean  this  girl  is  unfair?” 

“No;  she  only  does  what  she  thinks  will  give  her 
a  good  time.’  There  was  sturdiness  in  Anne’s 
character;  she  was  able  to  be  just  even  in  this  crisis 
of  feeling.  “You  can’t  blame  her,  and  it  wouldn’t  do 
any  good  if  you  did.  I  mean  it’s  unfair  of  human 
nature,  I  guess.  I  honestly  never  knew  that  men 
were  so  stupid  and  so — so  soft!  I  mean  it’s  unfair 
that  a  girl  like  this  Sallie  Ealing  can  turn  their 
heads.” 

“I  just  caught  a  glimpse  of  her,”  Mrs.  Cromwell 
said.  “What  is  she  like?” 

“She’s  awful.  The  only  thing  she  hasn’t  done  is 
bob  her  wonderful  hair,  but  she’s  too  clever  about 


SALLIE  EALING  71 

making  the  best  of  her  looks  to  do  that.  She  smokes 
and  drinks  and  ‘talks  sex’  and  swears.” 

“Good  heavens!”  Mrs.  Cromwell  exclaimed. 
“And  such  a  girl  is  put  up  for  membership  at  our 
quiet  old  family  country  club.” 

Anne  shook  her  head,  and  laughed  tearfully. 
“She’ll  never  be  blackballed  for  that.  Mamma! 
Nobody  thinks  anything  about  those  things  any 
more;  and  besides,  she  only  does  them  because  she 
thinks  they’re  ‘what  goes.’  They  aren’t  what’s  made 
the  boys  so  wild  over  her!” 

“Then  what  has?” 

“Oh,  it’s  so  crazy!”  Anne  cried.  “I  could  imagine 
little  boys  of  seven  or  even  ten,  being  caught  that 
way,  at  a  children’s  party,  but  to  see  grown  men/” 

“Anne!”  Mrs.  Cromwell  contrived  to  smile, 
though  rather  dismally.  “How  are  these  ‘grown 
men’  caught  by  Miss  Sallie  Ealing?” 

“Why,  just  by  less  than  nothing ^  Mamma!  Of 
course,  she’s  got  a  kind  of  style  and  anybody’d 
notice  her  anywhere,  but  what  makes  you  notice 
her  so  much  is  her  being  so  triumphant:  the  men  are 
all  rushing  at  her  every  instant,  and  that  makes  you 
look  at  her  more  than  you  would.  But  what  started 
them  to  rushing  and  what  keeps  them  going  is  the 


72 


WOMEN 


thing  I  feel  I  can  never  forgive  them  for.  Mamma, 
I  feel  as  if  I  could  never  respect  a  man  again!” 

“Remember  your  father,”  Mrs.  Cromwell  said 
indulgently.  “Your  father - ” 

“No;  if  a  man  like  Harrison  Crisp  can  become  just 
a  girl’s  slave  on  that  account - ”  Anne  inter¬ 

rupted  herself.  “Why,  it’s  like  Circe’s  cup!”  she 
cried.  “I  suppose  that  meant  Circe’s  kiss,  really.” 

“They  don’t  do  that,  do  they,  Anne?” 

“I  don’t  know,”  Anne  said.  “It’s  not  that  at 
first,  anyhow.” 

“Well,  how  does  she  enslave  them?” 

“It’s  like  this.  Mamma.  The  first  time  I  ever  saw 
her,  I  was  dancing  with  Harrison,  and  he  happened 
to  point  her  out  to  me.  He’d  just  met  her  and 
didn’t  take  any  interest  in  her  at  all.  He  really 
didn’t.  Well,  a  minute  or  two  later  she  danced  near 
us  and  spoke  to  him  over  her  partner’s  shoulder  as 
they  passed  us.  ‘I  heard  something  terrible  about 
you!’  was  what  she  said,  and  she  danced  on  away, 
looking  back  at  him  over  her  shoulder.  Pretty  soon 
some  one  cut  in  and  took  me  away,  and  Harrison 
went  straight  and  cut  in  and  danced  with  Sallie  Ealing 
almost  all  the  rest  of  the  evening.  The  next  day 
he  and  I  were  playing  over  the  course  and  when  we 


SALLIE  EALING 


73 


finished  she  was  just  starting  out  from  the  club  in  a 
car  with  one  of  the  boys.  She  called  back  to  Harri¬ 
son,  *I  dreamed  about  you  last  night!’  and  he  was 
terribly  silly:  he  kept  calling  after  her,  ‘What  was 
the  dream?’  And  she  kept  calling  back,  ‘I’ll  never 
tell  you!’  Mamma,  that’s  what  she  does  with  them 

aiir 

“Tells  them  she’s  dreamed  about  them?” 

“No,”  Anne  said.  “That’s  just  a  sample  of  her 
‘line.’  When  she  dances  near  another  girl  and  her 
partner,  she’ll  say  to  the  other  girl’s  partner,  ‘Got 
something  queer  to  tell  you,’  or  ‘I  heard  something 
about  you  last  night,’  or  ‘Wait  till  you  hear  what  I 
know  about  youy  or  something  like  that;  and,  of 
course,  he’ll  get  rid  of  the  girl  he’s  with  as  soon  as 
he  can  and  go  to  find  out.  She  almost  never  passes 
a  man  at  a  dance,  or  on  the  links,  without  either 
calling  to  him  if  he’s  not  near  her,  or  whispering  to 
him  if  he  is.  It’s  always  some  absolutely  silly  little 
mystery  she  makes  up  about  him — and  almost  her 
whole  stock  in  trade  is  that  she’s  heard  something 
about  ’em,  or  thought  something  curious  about  ’em, 
or  dreamed  about  ’em.  It’s  always  something  about 
them,  of  course.  Then  they  follow  her  around  to 
find  out,  and  she  doesn’t  tell  ’em,  so  they  keep  on 


74 


WOMEN 


following  her  around,  and  she  gets  them  so  excited 
about  themselves  that  then  they  get  excited  about 
her — and  she  makes  ’em  think  she’s  thinking  about 
them  mysteriously — and  they  get  so  they  can’t  see 
anybody  but  Sallie  Ealing !  They  don’t  know  what 
a  cheap  bait  she’s  caught  ’em  with.  Mamma; — 
they  don’t  even  guess  she’s  used  bait!  That’s  why 
I  don’t  feel  as  if  I  could  ever  respect  a  man  again. 
And  the  unfairness  of  it  is  so  strange!  The  rest  of 
us  could  use  those  tricks  if  we  were  willing  to  be  that 
cheap  and  that  childish;  but  we  can’t  even  tell  the 
men  that  we  wouldn’t  stoop  to  do  it!  We  can’t  do 
anything  because  they’d  think  we’re  jealous  of  her. 
What  can  we  do,  Mamma.^” 

Mrs.  Cromwell  sighed  and  shook  her  head.  ‘T’m 
afraid  a  good  many  generations  of  girls,  have  had 
their  Sallie  Ealings,  dear.” 

“You  mean  there  isn’t  anything  we  can  do?” 
Anne  asked,  and  she  added,  with  a  desolate  laugh, 
“I  just  said  that,. myself.  But  men  do  things  when 
they  feel  like  this,  don’t  they,  Mamma?  Why  is  it 
a  girl  can’t?  Why  do  I  have  to  sit  still  and  see  men 
I’ve  respected  and  loqked  up  to  and  thought  so  wise 
and  fine — why  do  I  have  to  sit  still  and  see  them 
hoodwinked  and  played  upon  and  carried  off  their 


SALLIE  EALING 


75 


feet  by  such  silly  little  barefaced  tricks.  Mamma? 
And  why  don’t  they  see  what  it  is,  themselves. 
Mamma?  Any  girl  or  woman — the  very  stupidest — 
can  see  it.  Mamma,  so  why  doesn’t  the  cleverest  man? 
Are  men  all  just  idiots.  Mamma?  Are  they?” 

This  little  tumult  of  hurried  and  emotional  ques¬ 
tions  pressed  upon  the  harassed  mother  for  but  a 
single  reply.  “Yes,  dear,”  she  said.  “They  are. 
It’s  a  truth  we  have  to  find  out,  and  the  younger  we 
are  when  we  find  out,  the  better  for  us.  We  have  to 
learn  to  forgive  them  for  it  and  to  respect  them  for 
the  intelligence  they  show  in  other  ways — ^but  about 
the  Sallie  Ealings  and  what  we  used  to  call  ‘wo¬ 
men’s  wiles,’  we  have  to  face  the  fact  that  men  are — 
well,  yes — just  idiots!” 

** All  men.  Mamma?” 

“I’m  afraid  so!” 

“And  there’s  nothing  to  do  about  it?” 

“I  don’t  quite  say  that,”  Mrs.  Cromwell  returned 
thoughtfully.  “There’s  one  step  I  shall  certainly 
be  inclined  to  take.  I’m  certain  these  Ealing  people 
would  not  make  desirable  members  of  the  club  and 
I _ ” 

“No,  no!”  Anne  cried,  in  terrified  protest.  “You 
mustn’t  try  to  have  them  blackballed.  Mamma. 


76 


WOMEN 


You  couldn’t  do  a  single  thing  about  it  that  Harrison 
would  hear  of,  because  he’s  proposed  them  himself, 
and  he’d  insist  on  knowing  where  the  opposition 
came  from.  Don’t  you  see  what  he’d  think?  It 
would  look  that  way  to  everybody  else,  too.  Don’t 
you  seCy  Mamma?” 

Mrs.  Cromwell  was  forced  to  admit  her  helpless¬ 
ness  to  help  her  daughter  even  by  this  stroke  of  war¬ 
fare.  “It’s  true,  I’m  afraid,  Anne.  But  what  an 
outrageous  thing  it  is!  We  can’t  even  take  measures 
to  protect  a  good  old  family  institution  like  the 
Green  Hills  club  from  people  who’ll  spoil  it  for  us — 
and  all  because  a  silly  boy  was  made  sillier  by  a 
tricky  girl’s  telling  him  she’d  dreamed  about  him!” 

“Yes,”  Anne  said,  while  new  tears  sidled  down  her 
cheeks; — “he  must  have  been  silly  all  the  time.  I 
didn’t  think  he  was — not  until  this  happened — but 
he  must  have  been,  since  it  could  happen.”  She 
put  out  a  hand  to  her  mother’s.  “Mamma,”  she 
said,  piteously,  “why  does  any  one  have  to  care  what 
a  silly  person  does?  If  he’s  silly  and  I  know  it,  why 
does  it  matter  to  me  what  he  does?  Why  don’t  I 
get  over  it?” 

And  with  that,  the  sobbing  she  had  so  manfully 


SALLIE  EALING 


77 


withheld  could  be  withheld  no  longer.  Her  mother 
soothed  her  in  a  mother’s  way,  but  found  nothing 
to  say  that  could  answer  the  daughter’s  question. 
They  had  an  unhappy  half-hour  before  Anne  was 
able  to  declare  that  she  was  ashamed  of  herself  and 
apologize  for  “making  such  an  absurd  scene”;  but 
after  that  she  said  she  was  “all  right,”  and  begged  her 
mother  to  go  to  bed.  Mrs.  Cromwell  complied, 
and  later,  far  in  the  night,  came  softly  to  Anne’s  door 
and  listened. 

Anne’s  voice  called  gently,  “Mother.^” 

The  door  was  unlocked,  and  Mrs.  Cromwell  went 
in.  “Dearest,  I’ve  been  thinking.  You  and  I 
might  take  a  trip  somewhere  abroad  perhaps. 
Would  you  like  to?” 

“We  can’t.  We  can’t  even  do  that.  Don’t  you 
see  if  we  went  now  it  would  look  as  if  I  couldn’t  stand 
it  to  stay  here?  We  can’t  do  anything.  Mother!” 

Mrs.  Cromwell  bent  over  the  bed.  “Anne,  this 
isn’t  serious,  dear.  It  will  pass,  and  you’ll  forget  it.” 

“No.  I  think  I  must  have  idealized  men.  Mother. 
I  believe  I  thought  in  my  heart  that  they’re  wiser 
than  we  are.  Are  they  all  such  fools.  Mother? 
That’s  what  I  can’t  get  over.  If  you  were  in  my 


78 


WOMEN 


place  and  Papa  not  engaged  to  you  yet,  and  he  saw 
Sallie  Ealing  and  she  tried  for  him — oh.  Mamma, 
do  you  think  that  even  Papa - ” 

Mrs.  Cromwell  responded  with  a  too  impulsive 
honesty;  she  gave  it  as  her  opinion  that  Sallie  would 
have  found  Mr.  Cromwell  susceptible.  “I’m  afraid 
so,  Anne,”  she  said.  “Perhaps  this  Ealing  girl’s 
way  would  be  too  crude  for  him  now,  at  his  age,  but 
I  shouldn’t  like  him  to  be  exposed  to  her  system  in 
the  hands  of  Madame  de  Stael,  for  instance. 
Somewhere  in  the  world  there  may  be  a  man  who 
wouldn’t  feel  any  fascination  in  it,  but  if  there  is  he’d 
be  a  ‘superman,’  and  we  aren’t  likely  to  meet  him. 
You  must  go  to  sleep  now.” 

“I’ll  try  to.  Mother,”  the  unhappy  girl  said 
obediently.  “I’ll  try  not  to  think.” 


VII 


NAPOLEON  WAS  A  LITTLE  MAN 


ON  AN  afternoon  of  June  sunshine,  a  week 
later,  Mrs.  Cromwell  sat  with  a  book  beside 
one  of  the  long  windows  of  her  drawing¬ 
room.  The  window  was  open,  and  just  outside  it  a 
grass  terrace,  bordered  by  a  stone  balustrade,  over¬ 
looked  the  lawn  that  ran  down  to  the  shady  street. 
Anne  reclined  in  a  wicker  chaise  longue  upon  the  ter¬ 
race,  protected  by  the  balustrade  and  a  row  of  plants 
from  the  observation  of  the  highway.  She,  also,  had 
a  book;  but  it  lay  upon  her  lap  in  the  relaxed  grasp 
of  a  flaccid  hand.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  though  she 
was  not  asleep;  and  the  mother’s  frequent  side  glances 
took  anxious  and  compassionate  note  of  darkened 
areas  beneath  the  daughter’s  eyelids,  of  pathetic 
shapings  about  her  mouth. 

The  street  was  lively  with  motorists  on  the  way  to 
open  country,  for  it  was  Saturday,  and  the  auto¬ 
mobiles  were  signalling  constantly;  but  among  all 

the  signals,  so  alike,  there  was  one  that  Anne  rec- 

79 


80 


WOMEN 


ognized.  Suddenly  she  opened  her  eyes,  drew  her¬ 
self  up,  and  looked  across  the  top  of  the  balustrade 
at  a  shining  gray  car  just  then  approaching.  It  was 
a  long,  fleet-looking  thing,  recognizably  imported, 
and  impressive  in  its  intimations  of  power,  yet  it 
selfishly  had  seats  for  but  two  people.  One  was  not 
occupied;  and  in  the  other  reclined  a  figure  appro¬ 
priate  to  the  fine  car,  for,  like  the  car,  the  figure  was 
long,  fleet-looking,  and  powerful.  The  young  man 
was  bareheaded;  his  dark  hair  shone  in  the  sunlight, 
and  his  hands  were  gracefully  negligent,  but  compe¬ 
tent,  upon  the  wheel.  One  of  them  gave  Anne  a 
cordial  though  somewhat  preoccupied  wave  of  greet¬ 
ing. 

She  waved  in  return,  but  did  not  smile;  then  she 
sank  back  in  her  chair  and  closed  her  eyes  again. 
Her  mother  sent  a  hard  glance  down  the  street  after 
the  disappearing  car,  looked  at  Anne,  and  breathed 
a  deep,  inaudible  sigh. 

A  moment  later  a  straw  hat  upon  a  head  of  short 
sandy  hair  appeared  above  the  balustrade  and  little 
Hobart  Simms  came  up  the  stone  steps  that  led  from 
the  lawn  to  the  terrace.  “I  hope  I’m  not  disturbing 
a  nap,”  he  said,  apologetically. 

Mrs.  Cromwell  was  sorry  to  see  him.  There  are 


NAPOLEON  WAS  A  LITTLE  MAN  81 


times  when  the  intrusions  of  the  insignificant  are 
harder  to  bear  than  those  of  the  important,  and  she 
felt  that  Anne’s  suffering  would  be  the  greater  for  the 
strain  of  talking  to  this  bit  of  insignificance  in  par¬ 
ticular.  However,  both  mother  and  daughter  gave 
the  youth  a  friendly  enough  greeting;  he  sat  down  in  a 
chair  near  Anne,  and  Mrs.  Cromwell  returned  her 
eyes  to  her  book. 

“It’s  such  a  fine  day,”  Hobart  said,  fanning  him¬ 
self  with  his  straw  hat.  “I  thought  maybe  after  I 
get  my  breath  you  might  like  to  take  a  walk,  maybe.” 

“I  believe  not,”  Anne  said,  smiling  faintly.  “How 
did  you  lose  your  breath,  Hobart.^” 

“Hurrying,”  he  explained.  “I’m  working  with 
the  receiver  that’s  in  charge  of  my  father’s  business, 
you  know.  As  soon  as  I  found  he  wasn’t  coming 
this  afternoon  I  left.  I  hurried  because  I  was  afraid 
you’d  be  out  somewhere.  We  haven’t  any  car,  you 
know; — they’re  in  the  receiver’s  hands,  too.” 

“I’m  so  sorry,  Hobart.” 

“Not  at  all,”  he  returned,  cheerfully.  “It’s  a 
good  thing.  There  are  lots  of  families  that  ought  to 
learn  how  to  use  a  sidewalk  again.  It’s  doing  all  of 
our  family  good.  We’d  got  like  too  many  other 
people;  we’d  got  to  believing  the  only  place  where  we 


WOMEN 


82 

could  walk  was  a  golf  course.  Bankruptcy’s  been  a 
great  thing  for  my  father — I  beheve  it’ll  add  ten 
years  to  his  life.” 

Anne  laughed  and  Mrs.  Cromwell  was  pleased,  for 
although  the  laugh  was  languid,  it  was  genuine. 
The  mother’s  glance  passed  from  her  daughter  to  the 
caller  and  lingered  with  some  favour  upon  his  shrewd 
and  cheerful  face.  Perhaps  it  was  just  as  well  that 
he  had  come,  if  he  could  amuse  Anne  a  little. 

‘T  never  heard  of  any  one  who  took  that  view 
before,”  the  girl  said.  “It’s  pretty  plucky  of  you,  I 
think.” 

“Not  at  all,”  he  said.  “We’re  all  of  us  having  a 
great  time.  Never  had  to  do  anything  we  didn’t 
want  to  before,  and  it’s  such  a  novelty  it’s  more 
fun  than  Christmas.  If  it  hadn’t  happened  I  doubt 
if  I’d  ever  have  found  out  that  I  like  to  work.” 

“But  you  did  work,  Hobart.” 

“Yes,”  he  said,  dryly.  “For  my  father.  This  is  a 
pretty  good  receiver  we’ve  got,  and  he’s  showed  me 
the  difference  between  working  for  my  father  and 
working  for  other  people.”  He  paused  and  chuckled. 
“Best  thing  ever  happened  to  me!” 

Anne  did  not  hear  him.  The  automobile  signal 
that  had  caught  her  attention  a  little  while  before 


NAPOLEON  WAS  A  LITTLE  MAN  8S 


was  again  audible  from  the  street,  and  she  had 
turned  to  look.  The  long,  gray,  foreign  car  came 
slowly  by,  moving  flexibly  through  a  momentary 
clustering  of  other  machines,  and  it  seemed  to  guide 
itself  miraculously,  for  the  driver  had  no  apparent 
interest  in  where  it  went.  His  attention  was  all 
upon  the  occupant  of  the  seat  that  had  been  vacant 
a  few  minutes  before; — upon  her  he  gazed  with  such 
aching  solicitude  that  he  could  be  known  for  a  lover 
at  a  distance  all  round  about  him  of  fifty  paces 
and  more.  And  not  only  he,  but  his  companion 
also  seemed  enclosed  within  the  spell  that  comes 
upon  lovers,  shutting  out  the  world  from  them; 
for,  as  he  gazed  upon  her,  so  she  likewise  gazed 
receptively  upon  him.  But,  being  a  girl,  she  was  in 
fact  aware  of  certain  manifestations  in  the  world  out¬ 
side  the  spell,  which  he  was  not,  and  she  knew  that 
she  was  observed  from  a  Georgian  terrace. 

She  detached  her  eyes  from  Harrison’s  long  enough 
to  wave  her  slim  hand,  and  received  in  return  a 
beaming  smile  from  Anne,  across  the  balustrade, 
and  a  wave  of  the  hand  most  cordial.  Harrison 
remained  in  his  trance,  incapable  of  making  or  re¬ 
ceiving  any  salutation,  and  Hobart  Simms,  looking 
after  the  car  as  it  passed  northward,  did  not  see  how 


84  WOMEN 

bleak  and  blank  Anne  looked  as  she  sank  back  in  her 
chair. 

He  laughed.  “Poor  old  Harry  Crisp!”  he  said. 
“He  didn’t  even  see  us,  so  it’s  all  up  with  him.  It’s 
too  bad:  he  might  have  got  something  out  of  life; 
but  it’s  all  over  now.” 

“I  don’t  follow  you,  I’m  afraid,”  Anne  said,  coldly, 
in  a  tired  voice. 

“No?  Well,  in  the  first  place,  he’s  working  for  his 
father.  That’s  bad,  but  it  can  be  got  over.  What’s 
really  fatal,  he’s  going  to  marry  that  Miss  Ealing.  I’ve 
heard  it  rumoured,  and  after  looking  at  ’em  just  now 
I  see  it’s  true.  That’s  something  he  can’t  get  over.” 

“Can’t  he?”  Anne’s  tired  voice  was  a  little 
tremulous.  “You  mean  he’ll  always  be  in  love  with 
her?  I  should  think  that  rather  desirable  if  they’re 
to  marry.” 

“Oh,  he’ll  get  over  Hobart  said,  briskly.  “I 
mean  he’ll  never  get  over  his  having  married  Miss 
Ealing.” 

Anne  looked  puzzled;  but  she  did  not  try  to  make 
him  be  more  explicit.  Instead,  she  asked  indifferently, 
“Don’t  you  call  her  ‘Sallie,’  Hobart?  I  thought  all 
the  men  called  her  ‘Sallie’  by  this  time.  She’s  been 
here  several  weeks.” 


NAPOLEON  WAS  A  LITTLE  MAN  85 

“No,  I  don’t,”  he  answered.  “I  haven’t  called 
her  anything,  in  fact.” 

“What?  Didn’t  she  take  the  trouble  to  fascinate 
you,  Hobart?” 

He  laughed.  “You’d  hardly  think  she  would,  but 
she  did — a  little.  I  don’t  suppose  you  could  say  she 
went  out  of  her  way  to  do  it,  or  took  any  trouble, 
exactly;  but  she  did  invite  me  to  join,  as  it  were.” 

Anne  was  more  interested.  Since  the  passing  of 
Harrison  Crisp’s  car  she  had  been  leaning  back  in  her 
long  chair,  but  now  she  sat  upright  and  looked 
frowningly  at  her  caller. 

“  ‘Invited  you  to  join  ?  ’  ”  she  said.  “What  do  you 
mean?” 

“I  mean  she  invited  me  to  get  on  the  band¬ 
wagon,”  he  explained.  “Not  right  up  on  a  front 
seat,  of  course;  but  anyhow  I  was  given  a  ticket  to 
hang  on  behind  somewhere.” 

“I  don’t  understand  you.” 

“Probably  you  don’t,”  Hobart  said,  and  he  looked 
thoughtful.  “You’re  always  so  above  the  crowd, 
Anne,  probably  you  wouldn’t  understand  Miss 
Ealing’s  invitations.  You  see  I’m  in  a  pretty  good 
position  to  see  things  that  you  wouldn’t,  so  to 
speak.  Of  course,  strangers  never  pay  any  atten- 


86 


WOMEN 


tion  to  the  little  shrimps  in  a  crowd,  and  when  Miss 
Ealing  did  pay  me  a  slight  attention  I  wasn’t  so  grate¬ 
ful  as  I  should  have  been; — thought  it  was  pretty 
funny.” 

“‘Funny’!”  Anne  exclaimed.  “Why?” 

“Because  it  only  showed  her  up,  you  see.  Of 
course,  it  didn’t  mean  she  had  any  interest  in  me;  it 
only  meant  she  had  a  use  for  me.  She  already  had 
most  of  the  rest  of  ’em  excited  about  her;  but  she’s  a 
real  collector  and  she  wanted  the  whole  collection — 
even  me !  You  see,  the  girl  that  makes  ’em  all  think 
she’s  thinking  about  them  isn’t  thinking  about  any 
of  ’em,  of  course.  She’s  only  thinking  about  herself, 
like  any  other  selfish  little  brute.” 

“Hobart!” 

“Of  course,  I  don’t  mean  to  say  she  gave  me  a 
pressing  invitation  to  join,”  he  explained,  laughing 
cheerfully  at  himself.  “Naturally,  that  couldn’t  be 
expected.  The  big,  hand-painted,  gilt-edged  card 
was  for  Harrison  Crisp,  of  course;  and  then  there  were 
a  number  of  handsomely  engraved  ones  for  tall 
eligibles.  She  just  slipped  me  a  little  one  printed  on 
soft  paper — a  sort  of  handbill,  you  know,  when  she 
was  delivering  ’em  around  to  the  residue.” 

Anne’s  languor  had  vanished  now.  She  stared  at 


NAPOLEON  WAS  A  LITTLE  MAN  87 


him  incredulously.  “Hobart  Simms/*  she  cried, 
“what  do  you  mean  by  ‘handbills’?” 

“It’s  simple  enough,”  he  began.  “That  is,  it  is  to 
me.  Taller  men  with  fathers  that  aren’t  in  the  hands 
of  a  receiver  wouldn’t  have  much  of  a  chance  to 
understand  it,  I  imagine.  She’s  made  a  real  stir 
in  our  little  Green  Hills  midst  with  her  handbills 
and - ” 

Anne  interrupted  sharply:  “I  asked  you  what 
you  meant  by  her  ‘handbills.’” 

“Yes;  I’m  trying  to  tell  you,  but  it’s  so  ridiculous 
I’m  afraid  you  won’t  be  able  to  see  what  I  mean. 
It’s  like  this:  she’ll  be  passing  you,  for  instance, 
dancing  with  some  other  man,  or  hanging  to  his  arm, 
and  she’ll  whisper  to  you  quickly  over  his  shoulder, 
‘I  heard  something  about  you,’  or,  ‘I’ve  found  out 
something  about  you,’  or,  maybe,  ‘Can’t  you  even 
look  at  me?’  Something  like  that,  you  know, — and 
you’re  supposed  to  get  excited  and  follow  up  the 
mystery.  You’re  supposed  to  wonder  just  how 
much  she  is  thinking  about  you,  you  see.  That’s 
what  I  mean  by  her  handbills,  because  if  you  donH 
get  excited,  but  look  around  a  little,  you’ll  notice  she’s 
passing  ’em  pretty  freely.  That’s  why  I  thought  it 
was  funny  when  she  even  gave  me  one!” 


88 


WOMEN 


‘‘Hobart!”  Anne  cried,  and  her  voice  was  free 
and  loud,  “Hobart  Simms!” 

“Yes?”  he  said,  inquiringly,  not  comprehending 
the  vehemence  of  her  exclamation. 

Anne  did  not  respond  at  once.  Instead,  she  sat 
staring  at  him,  and  her  mother  marked  how  a  small 
glow  of  red  came  into  the  daughter’s  cheek.  Then 
Mrs.  Cromwell  also  stared  at  little  Hobart  Simms; 
and  for  the  first  time  noticed  what  a  good  profile 
he  had  and  what  a  well-shaped  head.  Slowly  and 
wonderingly  the  daughter ’s  eyes  turned  to  meet  the 
mother’s,  and  each  caught  the  marvel  of  the  other’s 
thought:  that  it  was  this  unconsidered  little  Hobart 
Simms  who  fitted  Mrs.  Cromwell’s  definition  of  a 
“superman.” 

“Why,  yes,”  Anne  said,  slowly.  “If  you  really 
care  to  go  for  a  walk,  I’d  like  to  go  with  you,  Ho¬ 
bart.” 

Mrs.  Cromwell  watched  them  as  they  went  forth, 
outwardly  the  most  ill-assorted  couple  in  her  sight 
that  day;  for  Hobart  was  a  full  “head”  the  shorter. 
They  talked  amiably  together  as  they  went,  however, 
and  Mrs.  Cromwell’s  heart  was  lightened  by  the 
sound  of  Anne’s  laughter,  which  came  back  to  her 
even  when  the  two  had  gone  but  a  little  distance. 


NAPOLEON  WAS  A  LITTLE  MAN  89 


The  mother’s  heart  might  have  known  less  relief, 
that  afternoon,  had  she  suspected  this  walk  to  be  the 
beginning  of  “anything  serious.”  And  yet,  had  she 
been  a  good  soothsayer  and  seeress  she  might  well 
have  been  pleased;  for  not  many  years  were  to  pass 
before  Hobart  Simms’s  electrified  fellow  citizens 
were  to  remind  one  another  frequently  that  Napoleon 
was  a  little  man,  too. 


VIII 

MRS.  dodge’s  only  DAUGHTER 


That  capable  and  unsentimental  matron, 
Mrs.  Dodge,  was  engaged  in  the  composi¬ 
tion  of  an  essay  for  the  Woman’s  Saturday 
Club  (founded  1882)  and  the  subject  that  had 
been  assigned  to  her  was  “Spiritual  Life  and  the 
New  Generation.”  Her  work  upon  it  moved  slowly 
because  the  flow  of  her  philosophical  thinking  met 
constant  interference,  due  to  an  anxiety  of  her  own 
connected  with  the  New  Generation,  though  em¬ 
phatically  not  (in  her  opinion)  with  its  Spiritual  Life. 
Anxiety  always  makes  philosophy  difficult;  but  she 
sat  resolutely  at  her  desk  whenever  her  apprehensions 
and  her  general  household  duties  permitted;  and  she 
was  thus  engaged  upon  a  springtime  morning  a  week 
before  her  “paper”  was  to  be  presented  for  the  club’s 
consideration. 

She  wrote  quotations  from  Ruskin,  Whitman, 
Carlyle,  and  Schopenhauer,  muttering  pleasantly 

90 


MRS.  DODGE’S  ONLY  DAUGHTER  91 


to  herself  that  the  essay  was  “beginning  to  sound 
right  well”;  but,  unfortunately  for  literature,  the 
window  beside  her  desk  looked  down  upon  the 
street.  Nothing  in  the  mild  activities  of  “the  finest 
suburb’s  finest  residential  boulevard”  should  have 
stopped  an  essay,  and  yet  a  most  commonplace  ap¬ 
pearance  there  stopped  Mrs.  Dodge’s.  Her  glance, 
having  wandered  to  the  window,  became  fixed  in  a 
widely  staring  incredulity;  then  rapidly  narrowed  into 
most  poignant  distaste.  She  dropped  her  pen,  and 
from  her  parted  lips  there  came  an  outcry  eloquent  of 
horror. 

Yet  what  she  saw  was  only  a  snub-nosed  boy 
shambling  up  the  brick  path  to  her  front  door, 
walking  awkwardly,  and  obviously  in  a  state  of  em¬ 
barrassment. 

At  the  same  moment  Mrs.  Dodge’s  only  daughter, 
Lily,  aged  eighteen,  standing  at  a  window  of  the 
drawing-room  downstairs,  looked  forth  upon  pre¬ 
cisely  the  same  scene;  but  discovered  no  boy  at  all 
upon  the  brick  path.  Where  her  mother  saw  a  snub¬ 
nosed  boy  shambling,  Lily  beheld  a  knight  of  Arthur’s 
court,  bright  as  the  sun  and  of  such  grace  that  he 
came  toward  the  house  like  a  bird  gliding  in  a 
suave  curve  before  it  lights.  Merlin  wafted  him; 


92  WOMEN 

she  had  no  consciousness  that  feet  carried  him;  no 
consciousness  that  he  wore  feet  at  all.  She  knew 
only  that  this  divine  bird  of  hers  was  coming  nearer 
and  nearer  to  her,  while  her  heart  melted  within 
her. 

Then,  investing  him  with  proper  human  feet  for 
the  purpose  of  her  desire,  she  wanted  to  throw  her¬ 
self  down  before  the  door,  so  that  he  would  step 
upon  her  as  he  entered.  But,  instead,  she  ran  to 
admit  him,  and,  gasping,  took  him  by  the  hand,  led 
him  into  the  drawing-room,  moaned,  and  cast  herself 
upon  his  bosom,  weeping. 

“They  want  to  separate  us!”  she  sobbed.  “For¬ 
ever!  But  you  have  come  to  me !” 

Upstairs,  her  mother  set  a  paper-weight  upon  the 
manuscript  of  “Spiritual  Life  and  the  New  Genera¬ 
tion,”  realizing  at  once  that  emotional  conflict  was 
to  occupy  her  for  the  next  hour  or  so,  if  not  longer. 
She  descended  fiercely  to  the  drawing-room,  where  the 
caller,  rosy  as  fire,  removed  his  arm  from  Lily’s  waist, 
and  would  have  stepped  away  from  her.  But  Lily 
moaned,  “No!”  and  clung  to  him. 

“Stand  away  from  my  daughter!”  Mrs.  Dodge 
said.  “Explain  what  you  mean  by  daring  to  come 
here.” 


MRS.  DODGE’S  ONLY  DAUGHTER  93 


“I — I  want  to,”  he  stammered.  “That’s  just 
what  I — it’s  what  I  came  for.  I — I  want  to - ” 

But  Mrs.  Dodge  interrupted  him.  “Did  you 
understand  me?  I  said,  ‘Stand  away  from  my 
daughter!’” 

“I  would,”  he  said,  deferentially.  “I  would,  but 
—but - ” 

He  was  unable  to  explain  in  words  a  difficulty  that 
was  too  evident  without  them:  the  clinging  Lily 
resisted  his  efiPort  to  detach  himself,  and  it  was  clear 
that  in  order  to  obey  her  mother’s  command  he 
would  need  assistance  This,  however,  was  imme¬ 
diately  forthcoming. 

“Lily!”  Mrs.  Dodge  rushed  upon  her;  but  Lily 
clung  only  the  more  tragically. 

“No,  no!”  she  moaned.  “This  is  my  place  and  it 
is  my  right!” 

Mrs.  Dodge  set  really  violent  hands  upon  her, 
and  unmistakably  there  hovered  a  possibility,  in  the 
imminent  future,  that  Lily  would  not  only  be  re¬ 
moved  from  her  lover  but  would  also  get  a  shaking. 
Rather  than  be  seen  under  such  undignified  cir¬ 
cumstances,  she  succumbed  upon  a  sofa,  weeping 
there.  “You  see/*  she  wailed; — “you  see  how  they 
treat  me !” 


94 


WOMEN 


“Now,  before  you  march  out  of  here,”  her  mother 
said  to  the  intruder,  “you  explain  how  you  dared  to 
come.” 

“Well,  that’s  what  I  came  for,”  he  responded.  “I 
wanted  to  explain.” 

“You  make  it  perfectly  clear  in  one  stroke,”  Mrs. 
Dodge  said.  “You  came  here  to  explain  why  you 
came  here!” 

“Yes,  ma’am.” 

“Brilliant!”  she  cried.  “But  I  hadn’t  looked  for 
better.  I  think  you  may  trouble  yourself  to  take 
your  instant  departure,  Mr.  Oswald  Osborne!” 

As  she  pronounced  this  name,  which  she  did  with 
oppressive  distinctness,  the  young  man  winced  as 
at  the  twinge  of  an  old  wound  reopened.  “I  don’t 
think  that’s  fair,”  he  said,  plaintively. 

“It  isn’t  ‘fair’  for  me  to  choose  whom  I  care  to 
see  in  my  own  house?”  Mrs.  Dodge  inquired  with 
perfect  hypocrisy,  for  she  knew  what  he  meant. 

“I’m  talking  about  ‘Oswald’,”  he  explained.  “I 
can’t  help  my  name,  and  I  don’t  think  it’s  fair  to 
taunt  me  with  it.  My  parents  did  have  me  chris¬ 
tened  ‘Oswald,’  I  admit;  but  they  were  sorry  when  I 
got  older  and  they  saw  how  I  felt  about  it  and  what 
it  would  do  to  me.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  Mrs. 


MRS.  DODGE’S  ONLY  DAUGHTER  95 


Dodge,  I’ve  struggled  pretty  long  to  get  people  to 
quit  calling  me  ‘Oswald,’  and  almost  everybody 
calls  me  Crabbe  now.  It  isn’t  a  very  good  middle 
name,  but  anyhow  it’s  better  than - ” 

“Good  heavens!”  Mrs.  Dodge  interrupted.  “Are 
you  going  to  stand  here  all  morning  talking  about 
your  name?  I’m  afraid  you  overlook  the  circum¬ 
stance  that  you’ve  been  requested  to  leave  my 
house.” 

“I  know  it,”  he  said,  apologetically.  “But  it 
really  isn’t  fair  to  call  me  ‘Oswald’  any  more,  when 
practically  nobody  else  does,  and  that’s  what  threw 
me  off.  What  I  came  here  for,  I  had  to  see  Lily.” 

“7  had  to  see  youV^  Lily  cried  from  the  sofa. 
“If  I  hadn’t,  I  should  have  died !”  And  at  a  scornful 
look  from  her  mother,  she  passionately  insisted  upon 
the  accuracy  of  this  view.  “Oh,  yes,  I  should. 
Mamma!  You  don’t  hnaw  what  you  and  Papa  have 
been  putting  me  through!  You  don’t  Unaw  what  it 
does  to  me!  You  don’t  know  what  it’s  making  me 
suffer!  You  don’t  understand!” 

“I  understand  too  much,  unfortimately,”  the 
mother  retorted.  “I  understand  that  you’ve  got 
yourself  into  such  a  hysterical  state  over  a  young 
man  who  couldn’t  possibly  buy  a  pair  of  shoes  for 


96 


WOMEN 


you — or  for  himself! — and  that  your  father  and  I 
daren’t  let  you  step  out  of  the  house  alone  for  fear 
you’ll  try  to  run  away  with  him  again.” 

Young  Mr.  Osborne  protested  with  some  heat. 
“Why,  I’m  not  barefooted,  Mrs.  Dodge!”  he  said. 
“What  I  came  here  to  say  this  morning  is  right  on 
the  point  you’re  discussing.  You  and  Mr.  Dodge 
haven’t  once  been  fair  to  me  during  the  whole 
trouble  we’ve  had  about  this  matter,  and  when  you 
say  I  couldn’t  even  give  Lily  a  pair  of  shoes - ” 

“Could  you?”  Mrs.  Dodge  inquired,  breathing 
deeply.  “Am  I  misinformed  by  my  husband?  I 
seem  to  recall  he  told  me  that  when  you  and  Lily 
were  eloping  last  week — in  a  borrowed  car — ^he  over¬ 
took  you  at  a  refilling  station,  where  she  was  offering 
her  watch  and  rings  for  gasoline.” 

“I  didn’t  ask  her  to,”  Crabbe  Osborne  said,  flush¬ 
ing  deeper.  “I  admit  she  offered  ’em,  but  I  was 
arguing  about  it  with  her  when  Mr.  Dodge  got  there. 
Anyhow,  the  gas  man  wouldn’t  take  ’em.” 

“Oh,  he  should  have!”  Lily  moaned.  “Then  we 
wouldn’t  have  all  this  to  go  through.  We’d  have 
been  out  of  it  all.  We’d  have  been  together  for 
always!” 

“Would  you?”  her  mother  asked,  with  a  hard 


MRS.  DODGERS  ONLY  DAUGHTER  97 


laugh.  “Just  how  would  you  have  obtained  a 
marriage  license,  since  there  weren’t  enough  funds 
for  gasoline?” 

“I  had  that  all  thought  out,”  the  young  man  re¬ 
plied.  “We  were  going  to  stop  and  get  married  at 
Saline.  I’ve  got  a  cousin  living  in  Saline,  and  I 
could  have  borrowed  as  much  as  we  needed  from 
him.  He’d  have  trusted  me,  because  he  knows  I’d 
pay  him  back.” 

“And  would  you?”  Mrs.  Dodge  inquired. 

This  brought  a  protest  from  both  of  the  afflicted 
lovers.  Young  Mr.  Osborne  said,  “Oh,  look  here, 
Mrs.  Dodge,”  and  swallowed,  but  Lily  made  a  real 
outcry.  She  sprang  up,  facing  her  mother  angrily. 

“Shame!”  she  cried.  “You  taunt  him  with  his 
poverty!  Has  he  ever  pretended  for  one  moment 
to  be  a  rich  man?  If  he  had,  there  might  be  some 
point  to  your  taunts,  but  you  know  he  hasn’t. 
From  the  very  first  I  defy  you  to  say  he  hasn’t  been 
absolutely  frank  about  it!  I  do.  Mamma!  I  defy 
you  to  say  so!” 

“Sit  down,”  said  her  mother. 

“‘Sit  down?’  I  won’t.  Mamma;  I  won’t  sit 
down!  Indeed,  I  won’t,  and  you  haven’t  any  right 
to  make  me!  You  and  Papa  order  me  to  do  this; 


98 


WOMEN 


you  order  me  to  do  that;  you  order  me  to  do  every^ 
thing;  but  the  time’s  past  when  I  obeyed  you  like  a 
Myrmidon.  I  don’t  trust  your  wisdom  any  more, 
Mamma;  nor  Papa’s,  either — not  since  you’ve 
tried  to  keep  me  an  absolute  prisoner  and  won’t  let 
Crabbe  even  step  inside  the  yard!” 

“  ‘Inside  the  yard?’  ”  Mrs. Dodge  said.  “It  strikes 
me  he’s  rather  farther  than  that.”  She  turned  up¬ 
on  the  perplexed  young  man.  “How  many  times  do 
you  usually  have  to  be  requested  to  leave  a  house?” 

“Why,  I  expect  to  go,”  he  responded,  feebly.  “I 
do  expect  to  go,  Mrs.  Dodge.  I  think  I  have  a  right 
to  explain,  though,  and  if  you’d  just  listen  a 
minute - ” 

“Very  well.  I’ll  give  you  a  minute.” 

“It’s  like  this,”  he  said.  “I  know  you  and  Mr. 
Dodge  object  to  me  as — as  a  son-in-law - ” 

“We  do,  indeed!” 

“Well,  you  see,”  he  went  on,  “that’s  just  the  in¬ 
justice  of  it.  I’m  twenty-two-and-a-half  years  old, 
and  while  I  admit  I’ve  had  considerable  trouble  in 
some  of  the  positions  I’ve  filled  in  a  business  way, 
why,  you  can’t  expect  hard  luck  to  keep  on  being 
against  me  forever.  It’s  bound  to  turn,  Mrs. 
Dodge.  Luck  doesn’t  always  run  just  one  way,  not 


MRS.  DODGE’S  ONLY  DAUGHTER  99 


by  any  means.  My  own  father  said  last  night  he 
wouldn’t  be  surprised  if  I’d  get  hold  of  something 
pretty  soon  that  would  interest  me  so  much  I’d 
do  mighty  well  at  it.  Well,  he’s  been  prejudiced 
against  me  a  good  long  while  now,  and  I  thought  if  he 
had  faith  in  me  to  say  as  much  as  that,  it  was  cer¬ 
tainly  time  for  other  people  to  begin  to  show  a  little 
faith  in  me,  too.  What  I  came  here  for  this  morning, 
Mrs.  Dodge,  was  to  tell  Lily  about  my  father  say¬ 
ing  that  to  me.  I  thought  she  ought  to  know  about 
it.  You  see.  Father  speaking  that  way  started  me 
to  thinking,  and  I’ve  realized  with  the  positions  I’ve 
held  so  far  I  couldn’t  get  myself  interested  in  the 
work.  That’s  just  exactly  what’s  been  the  main 
difficulty.  So  I  wanted  to  tell  Lily  I’ve  made  up 
my  mind  I’m  going  to  look  for  a  position  where 
the  work  will  interest  me.  I  thought  if  she  knew  I’d 
taken  this  stand  on  the  question - ” 

“Excuse  me,”  Mrs.  Dodge  interrupted,  “I  believe 
the  minute  I  agreed  to  listen  is  up.  I  must  remind 
you  of  my  request  to  leave  this  house.” 

“Well — ”  he  said,  uncertainly,  “if  you  put  it  like 
that - ” 

“I  do,  if  you  please.” 

‘‘Well - ”  he  said,  again,  and  took  a  step  toward 


100 


WOMEN 


the  door,  but  was  detained  by  Lily,  who  made  an 
impassioned  effort  to  reach  him  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  her  large  and  solid  mother  instantly  placed  her¬ 
self  between  them. 

“You  sha’n’t  go!”  Lily  cried.  “If  you  do.  I’ll 
go  with  you.  I’ll  die  if  you  leave  me!  I  will, 
Mamma!” 

“Stop  that!”  Mrs.  Dodge  commanded,  and  again 
found  herself  in  the  predicament  of  a  lady  who  is 
compelled  to  use  force.  Lily  struggled,  and,  unable 
to  pass,  looked  agony  upon  her  lover,  wept  at  him 
over  her  mother’s  shoulder,  and  also  extended  an 
imploring  arm  and  hand  toward  him  above  this 
same  impediment. 

“You  mustn’t  leave  me!”  she  begged,  hoarsely. 
“I  can’t  stand  it!  Take  me  away  with  you!”  And 
to  this  she  added  a  word  that  her  mother  found  in¬ 
credible,  even  though  Mrs.  Dodge  had  been  through 
some  amazing  scenes  lately,  and  thought  the  utmost 
of  Lily’s  extravagance  already  within  her  experience. 
Yet  the  mother  might  have  been  wiser  here,  might 
have  understood  that  for  a  girl  of  Lily’s  emotional 
disposition,  and  in  Lily’s  condition  of  tragic  love, 
no  limits  whatever  may  be  set. 

To  Lily  herself  the  word  she  used  was  not  extrava- 


MRS.  DODGE’S  ONLY  DAUGHTER  101 


gant  at  all;  it  was  merely  her  definition  of  Crabbe 
Osborne.  As  he  went  toward  the  door  Lily  saw  a 
brightness  moving  with  him,  an  effulgence  that 
would  depart  with  him  and  leave  but  darkness  when 
he  had  passed  the  threshold.  No  doubt  the  true 
being  of  young  Crabbe  was  neither  as  Mrs.  Dodge 
conceived  it  nor  as  Lily  saw  it; — no  earthly  intellect 
could  have  defined  just  what  he  was:  nor,  for  that 
matter,  can  any  earthly  intellect  say  what  anything 
is,  since  all  of  our  descriptive  words  express  nothing 
more  than  how  the  things  appear  to  ourselves;  and 
our  descriptions,  therefore,  are  all  but  bits  of  auto¬ 
biography.  Thus,  Lily’s  word  really  expressed  not 
Crabbe  but  her  own  condition,  and  that  was  what 
shocked  her  mother.  Yet  Lily  sincerely  believed 
that  the  word  described  Crabbe;  and,  in  her  opinion, 
since  her  lover’s  effulgence  was  divine,  this  word 
was  natural,  moderate,  and  peculiarly  accurate. 

“Take  me  away  with  you,”  she  wailed;  and  then, 
in  a  voice  beset  with  tears,  she  hoarsely  called  him, 
“Angel”! 

“Oh,  murder!”  cried  Mrs.  Dodge.  And  she  was 
inspired  to  turn  upon  Crabbe  Osborne  a  look  that  ex¬ 
pressed  in  full  her  critical  thought  of  Lily’s  term  for 
him. 


102 


WOMEN 


Unquestionably  he  found  himself  in  diflSculties. 
Called  “angel”  in  the  presence  of  a  third  party,  he 
may  have  been  hampered  by  some  sense  of  personal 
inadequacy.  He  produced  a  few  sounds  in  his 
throat,  but  nothing  in  the  way  of  appropriate  re¬ 
sponse;  and  under  the  circumstances  the  expression  of 
Mrs.  Dodge  was  not  long  to  be  endured  by  any 
merely  human  being. 

“I  guess  maybe — maybe  I  better  be  stepping 
along,”  he  murmured,  and  acted  upon  the  supposi¬ 
tion  that  his  guess  was  a  correct  one. 

Lily  cried,  “No!  Don’t  leave  me!”  And  pit¬ 
eously  she  used  her  strange  word  for  him  again; 
but  her  mother  held  her  fast  until  after  the  closing 
of  the  front  door  was  heard.  “Oh,  Heaven!” 
Lily  wailed,  “won’t  you  even  let  me  go  and  watch 
him  till  he’s  out  of  sight?  Won’t  you  even  let  me 
look  at  him?” 

“No,  I  won’t!” 

Upon  this  the  daughter  slid  downward  from  the 
mother’s  grasp  and  cast  herself  upon  the  floor. 
“He’s  gone!”  she  sobbed.  “Oh,  he’s  gone!  He’s 
gone,  and  you  drove  him  out!  You  drove  him! 
You  did!  You  drove  him!” 


MRS.  DODGE’S  ONLY  DAUGHTER  103 


‘‘Get  up  from  there,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said,  fiercely. 
“Be  quiet!  Do  you  want  the  servants  to  hear  you?” 

“What  do  1  care  who  hears  me?  You  drove 
him!  You  drove  him,  Mamma!  You  did!  You 
drove  him!” 


IX 

MRS.  dodge’s  husband 


SPIRITUAL  LIFE  and  the  New  Generation” 
lay  meekly  upon  Mrs.  Dodge’s  desk  for  all 
the  rest  of  that  day,  and  nothing  was  added 
to  it.  Late  in  the  afternoon  Lily  consented  to  take 
a  little  beef  tea  and  toast  in  her  room;  but  she  was 
still  uttering  intermittent  gurgles,  like  sobs  too 
exhausted  for  a  fuller  expression,  when  her  mother 
brought  her  tray  to  her — or  perhaps  Lily  merely 
renewed  the  utterance  of  these  sounds  at  sight  of 
her  mother — and  all  in  all  the  latter  had  what  she 
called  “a  day  indeed  of  it!” 

So  she  told  Mr.  Dodge  upon  his  arrival  from  his 
oflSce  that  evening.  ^^HavenH  I,  though !”  she  added, 
and  gave  him  so  vivid  an  account  that,  although  he 
was  tired,  he  got  up  from  his  easy  chair  and  paced 
the  floor. 

“It  comes  back  to  the  same  old,  everlasting  ques- 
tion,”  he  said,  when  she  had  concluded.  “What 
does  she  see  in  him?  What  on  earth  makes  her  act 


104 


MRS.  DODGE’S  HUSBAND 


105 


like  that  over  this  moron?  There’s  the  question  I 
don’t  believe  anybody  can  answer.  She’s  always 
been  a  fanciful,  imaginative  girl,  but  until  this  thing 
came  over  her  she  appeared  to  be  fairly  close  to 
normal.  Of  course,  I  supposed  she’d  fall  in  love 
some  day,  but  I  thought  she’d  have  a  few  remnants  of 
reason  left  when  she  did.  I’ve  heard  of  girls  that 
acted  like  this,  but  not  many;  and  I  never  dreamed 
ours  would  be  one  of  that  sort.  I’d  like  to  know  what 
other  parents  have  done  who’ve  had  daughters  get 
into  this  state  over  some  absolutely  worthless  cub 
like  Crabbe  Osborne.” 

‘T  don’t  know,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said,  helplessly. 
“I’d  ask  ’em  if  I  did.  I’m  sure  I’m  at  my  wits’ 
end  about  it.” 

“We  both  are.  I  admit  I  haven’t  the  faintest  idea 
how  to  do  anything  more  intelligent  than  we’ve  been 
doing — and  yet  I  see  where  it’s  going  to  end.” 

“Where,  Roger?  Where  do  you  think  it’s  going 
to  end?” 

“They’ve  tried  twice  now,”  he  said,  gloomily. 
“Last  time,  if  the  idiot  had  taken  the  precaution 
to  see  that  there  was  plenty  of  gas  in  his  borrowed 
car  before  they  started,  they’d  have  been  married. 
Some  day  before  long  he’ll  borrow  enough  gas,  and 


106  WOMEN 

then  she’s  going  to  slip  out  and  meet  him  again,  and 
they  will.” 

“No,  no!”  his  wife  protested.  “I  can’t  bear  to 
hear  you  say  so.” 

“It’ll  happen,  just  the  same,”  he  assured  her, 
grimly.  “Nothing  on  earth  that  we’ve  done  has 
been  able  to  make  her  see  this  cub  except  as  an  angel 
— a  persecuted  angel.  She  really  meant  it  when  she 
called  him  that; — on  my  soul,  I  believe  she  did! 
We’ve  told  her  the  truth  about  him  over  and  over 
till  the  repetition  makes  us  sick.  What  effect  does  it 
have  on  her?  We’ve  told  her  what  his  own  father 
said  about  him,  that  he’s  ‘absolutely  no  good  on 
earth  and  never  will  be!’  What  help  was  that? 
Then  we  tried  having  other  people  tell  her  their 
opinions  of  Crabbe.  It  only  made  her  hate  the 
other  people.  We’ve  tried  indulgence;  we  made  the 
greatest  effort  to  interest  her  in  other  things;  we’ve 
tried  to  get  her  interested  in  other  young  men;  we’ve 
tried  giving  her  anything  she  wanted;  we’ve  tried 
to  get  her  to  travel;  offered  her  Europe,  Asia,  and  the 
whole  globe;  and  then  when  she  wouldn’t  go  and 
everything  else  we  tried  was  no  good,  we  tried  taking 
the  whole  thing  as  a  joke — making  good-natured 
fun  of  this  cub;  trying  to  make  her  see  him  as  ridicu- 


MRS.  DODGE’S  HUSBAND 


107 


lous — and  the  end  of  that  was  her  first  attempt  to 
run  away  with  him!  Well,  she  did  it  again,  and  if 
we  keep  on  as  we’re  going  she’ll  do  it  again!  What’s 
our  alternative?  I  ask  you!” 

His  wife  could  only  moan  that  she  didn’t  know; — 
her  mind  as  well  as  her  emotion  was  exhausted,  she 
said;  and  the  only  thing  she  could  suggest  now  was 
that  he  should  try  to  get  Lily  to  come  down  to  din¬ 
ner.  He  assented  gloomily,  “Well,  I’ll  see,  though  it 
makes  me  sick  to  listen  to  her  when  she’s  like  this,” 
and  went  upstairs  to  his  daughter’s  room. 

After  he  had  knocked  repeatedly  upon  the  door, 
obtaining  only  the  significant  response  of  silence, 
he  turned  the  knob,  found  himself  admitted  into 
darkness,  and  pressed  a  button  upon  the  wall  just 
inside  the  door.  The  light,  magically  instantaneous, 
glowed  from  the  apricot-coloured  silk  shades  of  two 
little  lamps  on  slender  tables,  one  at  each  side  of 
the  daintily  painted  bed; — and  upon  the  soft  green 
coverlet,  with  her  fair  and  delicate  head  upon  the 
lace  pillow,  lay  his  daughter.  With  hands  pressed 
palm  to  palm  upon  her  breast,  her  attitude  was  that 
of  a  crusader’s  lady  in  stone  upon  a  tomb;  and  the 
closed  eyes,  the  exquisite  white  profile,  thin  with 
suffering,  the  slender,  long  outline  of  her  figure,  could 


108 


WOMEN 


not  fail  to  touch  a  father’s  heart.  For  the  wasting  of 
long-drawn  anguish  was  truly  sculptured  there,  even 
though  the  attitude  might  have  been  a  little  calcu¬ 
lated. 

“Lily,”  he  said,  gently,  as  he  approached  the  bed, 
“your  mother  wants  to  know  if  you  wouldn’t  like  to 
come  down  to  dinner.” 

The  dark  eyelids  remained  as  they  were;  but  the 
pale  lips  just  moved.  “No,  thank  you.” 

“You  won’t?” 

“No.” 

“Then  shall  we  send  your  dinner  up  to  you, 
Lily?” 

“No,  thank  you,”  she  whispered. 

He  had  come  into  the  room  testily,  in  a  gloomy 
impatience;  but  she  seemed  so  genuinely  in  pain 
and  so  pathetically  fragile  a  contestant  against  her 
solid  mother  and  against  his  own  robust  solidity  that 
suddenly  he  lost  every  wish  to  chide  her,  even  every 
wish  to  instruct  her.  He  became  weak  with  com¬ 
passion,  and  the  only  wish  left  in  him  was  the  wish  to 
make  her  happier.  He  sat  down  upon  a  painted  little 
chair  beside  the  bed. 

“Lily,  child,”  he  said,  huskily,  “for  pity’s  sake, 
what  is  it  you  want?” 


MRS.  DODGE’S  HUSBAND 


109 


And  again  the  pathetic  lips  just  moved. 

^‘You  know.  Papa.” 

There  was  something  in  the  whispered  word 
“Papa”  that  cried  to  him  of  sweetness  under  torture, 
and  cried  of  it  with  so  keen  a  sound  that  he  groaned 
aloud.  “O,  baby  girl!”  he  said,  succumbing  then 
and  there,  when  he  had  least  expected  such  a  thing  to 
happen  to  him.  “We  canH  let  you  suffer  like  this! 
Don’t  you  know  we’ll  do  anything  on  earth  to  make 
you  happy?” 

“No.  You  wouldn’t  do  the  one  thing — ^Papa?” 

“I  said  anything,”  he  groaned. 


X 

lily’s  almost  first  engagement 


WHEN  he  came  downstairs  to  his  wife, 
five  minutes  later,  he  told  her  desperately 
to  what  he  had  consented.  ' 

“There  isn’t  any  alternative,”  he  said,  in  his  de¬ 
fence  against  Mrs.  Dodge’s  outcry.  “It  was  going 
to  happen  anyhow,  in  spite  of  everything  we  could 
do,  and  she’s  grown  so  thin — I  hadn’t  realized  it,  but 
she’s  lost  heaven  knows  how  many  pounds!  You 
don’t  want  the  child  to  die,  do  you.^  Well,  when  I 
saw  her  there,  so  worn  and  stricken,  it  came  over  me 
what  that  alternative  would  mean  to  us!  When  it 
comes  to  risking  her  life,  I  give  up.  I’d  give  my  own 
life  to  keep  her  from  marrying  this  idiot,  but  not  hers! 
There’s  only  one  thing  for  us  to  do,  and  we’ve  got  to 
go  through  with  it.” 

“I  can’t!” 

“Yes,  you  can,”  he  told  her,  angrily.  “And  since 

we’ve  got  to  do  it  we’ll  do  it  right.  Not  another  word 

to  her  from  either  of  us  in  dispraise  of  her  idiot. 

110 


LILY’S  ENGAGEMENT 


111 


On  the  contrary!  And  he’s  to  be  asked  to  dinner 
to-morrow  night,  and  as  often  as  she  wants  him  after¬ 
ward.  Blast  him,  I’ll  put  him  into  my  own  office 
and  try  my  darnedest  to  make  it  a  job  that’ll  in¬ 
terest  him.  They  can  be  married  as  soon  as  he’s 
saved  enough  to  pay  his  own  way.  I’ll  give  her 
enough  for  hers.  We’re  beaten,  Lydia.  There’s 
nothing  else  to  do.” 

She  protested  despairingly,  and  in  continued 
despair  finally  surrendered  her  “better  judgment,” 
as  she  called  it,  to  his  weakness.  Thus,  after  a  pain¬ 
ful  evening  of  argument,  they  went  unhappily  to 
their  uneasy  beds,  but  woke  in  the  morning  deter¬ 
mined  to  be  thoroughbreds  in  the  manner  of  their 
acceptance  of  Oswald  Crabbe  Osborne  as  their 
daughter’s  betrothed. 

Their  encounter  with  him,  when  he  came  to  dinner 
that  evening  in  this  recognized  capacity,  was  an 
almost  overwhelming  trial  of  their  gameness;  but 
they  succeeded  in  presenting  the  semblance  of  a 
somewhat  strained  beaming  upon  him,  and  were  re¬ 
warded  by  the  sight  of  a  fading  daughter  blossoming 
again. 

For  Lily  was  radiant:  her  eyes  and  cheeks  glowed; 
her  feet  danced;  she  was  all  light  and  love  and  gaiety. 


in 


WOMEN 


At  the  table  she  laughed  at  every  nothing,  caressed 
her  father,  patted  her  mother’s  cheek  again  and  again, 
and  from  her  eyes  poured  sunshine  upon  her  lover 
across  the  centrepiece  of  roses. 

Crabbe  received  the  sunshine  with  complacency, 
for  he  was  accustomed  to  it;  and  although  his  posi¬ 
tion  in  regard  to  her  father  and  mother  was  a  novelty, 
he  appeared  to  accept  their  change  of  front  as  some¬ 
thing  he  had  confidently  expected  all  along.  That 
is  to  say,  he  took  it  as  a  simple  and  natural  matter, 
of  course,  and  was  not  surprised  to  be  shown  every 
consideration  by  his  former  opponents. 

In  truth,  they  showed  him  more  consideration 
than  he  was  able  to  perceive.  As  was  already  well 
known  to  them,  he  had  not  the  equipment  for  what 
is  often  spoken  of  as  general  conversation;  his  views 
upon  religious,  political,  scientific,  or  literary  sub¬ 
jects  were  tactfully  not  sought,  because  of  his  having 
omitted  to  acquire  the  information  sometimes  held 
to  be  a  necessary  preliminary  to  the  formation  of 
views; — in  fact,  as  Lily’s  parents  were  previously 
aware,  he  lacked  even  those  vagrant  symptoms  of 
ambition,  the  views  without  the  information.  There¬ 
fore,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dodge  kept  the  talk  at  first  as 
Weatherly,  and  then  as  personal,  as  they  could  make 


LILY’S  ENGAGEMENT 


IIS 


it,  hoping  he  might  shine  a  little,  or  at  least  that  some 
faint  spark  might  come  from  him  to  brighten  their 
own  impressions  of  him.  They  wanted  to  force 
themselves  to  like  him;  they  had  genuine  yearnings 
to  think  better  of  him  than  had  been  their  habit; 
but  although  they  strove  within  themselves  to  attain 
these  ends,  they  cannot  be  thought  to  have  succeeded. 
The  nearest  Crabbe  came  to  giving  them  a  spark 
was  when  he  spoke  of  his  father;  and  even  that  appar¬ 
ent  momentary  gleam  was  not  a  happy  one. 

“He’s  well,”  Crabbe  said,  replying  to  Mrs.  Dodge’s 
inquiry.  “He’s  usually  well  enough.  He  takes 
pretty  good  care  of  his  health  and  all.  I  guess  he’s 
a  good  deal  surprised;  but  probably  not  enough  to 
make  him  sick.” 

“Isn’t  he?”  Mr.  Dodge  said,  and  he  laughed 
hopefully,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  here  was  an 
unexpected  hint  of  humour,  something  he  had  never 
attributed  to  the  young  man.  “What  would  sur¬ 
prise  him  as  much  as  that?” 

“I  don’t  know,  exactly,”  Crabbe  replied.  “But 
he  told  me  once  he  always  got  sick  if  anything  sur¬ 
prised  him  too  much.  He  says  it  injures  his  diges¬ 
tion.  What  he’s  surprised  about  now,  it  was  when  I 
told  him  about  Lily’s  telephoning  me  this  morning 


114 


WOMEN 


you  were  going  to  find  me  a  position  that  would 
interest  me.  He  certainly  said  he  was  surprised.” 

Mr.  Dodge’s  expectations  collapsed,  though  his 
expression  remained  indomitably  genial.  “I  see,” 
he  said.  “Well,  we’ll  surprise  him  more  by  showing 
him  how  well  you  get  on  at  the  work.” 

“I  know  I  will,”  Crabbe  returned,  simply.  “I 
mean  I’m  certain  to  if  it  is  interesting.  It’s  just  like 
I’ve  been  telling  Lily:  the  only  reason  I  ever  had  any 
trouble  at  all  in  business,  it’s  because  the  luck’s 
been  all  one  way  so  far; — it  kept  against  my  get¬ 
ting  anything  to  do  that  had  any  possibilities  in  it. 
But  it’ll  be  different  from  now  on,  I  guess.  All  any¬ 
body  needs  to  do  for  me,  Mr.  Dodge,  is  to  find  me  a 
position  where  I’ll  feel  some  use  in  getting  my  brain 
to  work.” 

Mr.  Dodge  said  he  was  sure  of  it,  gave  his  attention 
to  his  plate  for  a  few  moments,  and  then,  with  the 
gallant  assistance  of  his  wife,  returned  to  the  weather. 
Later,  when  they  were  alone  together  in  the  library, 
where  they  could  hear  from  the  drawing-room  the 
pretty  sound  of  Lily’s  prattling,  and,  at  brief  inter¬ 
vals,  her  happy  laughter,  the  parents  faced  their 
misery. 


LILY’S  ENGAGEMENT 


115 


‘‘It’s  unbelievable,”  Mr.  Dodge  said,  huskily. 
“You  don’t  run  across  these  extreme  cases  of  self- 
satisfied  asininity  more  than  a  few  times  in  your 
whole  life,  even  counting  all  the  hundreds  and  thou¬ 
sands  of  people  you  come  in  contact  with.  And  to 
think  you’ve  got  to  take  such  a  case  into  your 
family!  ” 

“It’s  your  idea!”  his  wife  reminded  him. 

“It  isn’t!  It’s  not  my  idea;  it’s  a  monstrous  de¬ 
lusion  that’s  got  hold  of  our  girl  and  that  we  failed 
to  show  her  is  a  delusion.  Well,  since  we  couldn’t 
show  her  it  is,  and  since  opposing  her  in  it  was  in¬ 
juring  her  health,  what’s  left  for  us  to  do  but  to  act  as 
if  it  were  a  reality?  It  isn’t  my  idea  to  treat  this 
moron  as  an  angel  and  take  him  into  our  family: 
it’s  the  dreadful  necessity  that  her  delusion  has 
forced  upon  us.” 

“Thank  you  for  not  ending  with,  ‘Isn’t  that 
logical?’”  she  said.  “I’ve  been  under  such  a  strain, 
keeping  my  face  cordial  at  the  table,  I  don’t  believe 
I  could  have  stood  it!” 

“Under  a  strain?”  he  echoed.  “I  should  say 
so !  ”  He  gave  her  a  commiserating  and  comradelike 
pat  upon  her  shoulder  as  he  passed  behind  her  to  get 


116  WOMEN 

a  book  from  the  shelves.  “WeVe  both  been  under 
a  strain,  Lydia,  and  I’m  afraid  weVe  got  to  go  on 
being  under  it.” 

“Yes,”  she  agreed.  “That’s  the  prospect — for 
the  rest  of  our  lives !  ” 

“I’m  afraid  so.”  Then,  with  grave  faces,  they 
settled  down  to  their  books,  or,  at  least,  tried  to 
settle  down  to  them,  but  looked  into  vague  and 
troubled  distance  more  than  they  read; — ever  and 
anon,  as  Lily’s  merriment  was  made  ripplingly  vo¬ 
cal  in  the  drawing-room,  the  silence  of  the  library 
would  become  intensified  and  then  be  broken  by  a 
mother’s  sigh.  But  at  ten  o’clock  the  front  door  was 
heard  to  close  with  soft  reluctance;  and  Lily  left  upon 
the  air  a  trail  of  dance  music  in  slender  soprano  as  she 
skipped  down  the  hall  and  into  the  library.  She 
threw  her  arms  about  her  mother,  then  about  her 
father,  kissing  them  in  turn. 

“Now  you’ve  let  yourselves  begin  to  know  him,” 
she  cried,  “isn’t  he  wonderful.^  Isn’t  he  wonderful. 
Mamma?  Isn’t  he  wonderful.  Papa?” 

The  two  thoroughbreds  proved  of  what  stuff 
heroism  is  made.  They  said  Crabbe  was  wonderful. 
.  .  .  Upon  an  evening  two  weeks  later,  Mr. 

Dodge,  again  alone  with  his  wife  in  the  library, 


LILY’S  ENGAGEMENT 


117 


reverted  to  this  opinion.  ‘T  think  Crabbe  Osborne 
is  more  than  wonderful,”  he  said.  ‘T  think  he’s 
unique.  I  hate  to  be  premature,  but  he’s  been  in 
my  office  for  several  days  now,  and,  though  they 
don’t  say  it,  I  can  see  that  everyone  there  agrees 
with  me.  He  couldn’t  possibly  have  a  duplicate.” 

“Isn’t  he  ‘interested’  in  anything  you’ve  offered 
him.?  Hasn’t  he  been  able  to  get  his  ‘brain’  to 
work?” 

“Not  yet,”  Mr.  Dodge  replied.  “He’s  a  little 
discouraged  about  it,  I’m  afraid.” 

“But  you  aren’t,  are  you?”  She  made  this 
inquiry  with  a  pointedness  not  wasted  upon  him,  for 
he  had  already  perceived  the  indications  that  thence¬ 
forth  in  their  private  hours,  until  death  did  them 
part,  he  was  to  be  the  defender  of  their  acceptance 
of  Crabbe  Osborne.  Mrs.  Dodge  adopted  her  hus¬ 
band’s  policy,  but  could  not  relinquish  her  attitude 
of  having  been  forced  to  it. 

“I’m  not  discouraged  about  my  daughter’s  health 
and  spirits,”  he  retorted,  a  little  sharply.  “I’m  not 
discouraged  about  having  done  the  right  thing. 
The  ‘right  thing’?  How  often  do  I  have  to  tell  you 
it  was  the  only  thing?  Look  what  it’s  done  for 
Lily.  She  was  literally  pining  away.  How  many 


118  WOMEN 

weeks  was  it  that  we  never  once  saw  her  smile? 
How  many  dozens  and  dozens  of  miserable,  agonizing 
scenes  did  we  have  with  her?  How  long  was  it  that 
every  day  was  only  another  of  weeping  and  outcries — 
and  untouched  food  on  trays  outside  her  door — 
and  tears  on  untouched  food  on  the  table  when  she 
did  come  to  the  dining-room?  I  tell  you,  this  house 
was  nothing  but  a  nightmare !  ” 

“And  how  would  you  define  most  of  our  dinners 
during  the  last  fortnight?” 

He  winced,  but  continued  to  defend  himself.  “At 
least  we’ve  reduced  the  nightmare.  If  our  dinners 
with  the  moron  are  nightmares  for  us,  they  aren’t 
for  Lily.  Only  two  of  us  suffer,  where  it  was  night* 
mare  for  all  three  of  us  before.  And  it’s  been  easier 
for  us  this  second  week  than  it  was  the  first  one.” 

“Not  for  me,”  his  wife  said,  dismally.  “The 
more  I  see  of  him  the  more  terrible  it  is  to  think  of 
him  as  permanent.” 

“But  can’t  you  think  only  of  Lily?” 

“Indeed,  I  can!  I’m  doing  just  that!” 

“Well,  then,”  he  urged,  “think  of  the  difference 
in  her  these  two  weeks  have  made.  Now  she’s  in¬ 
terested  in  everything,  happy  in  everything.  How 
many  times  did  we  try  to  get  her  to  go  to  the  country 


LILY’S  ENGAGEMENT 


119 


club  dances  and  be  with  the  other  young  people  of 
the  kind  she  liked  and  enjoyed  before  this  spell 
came  upon  her?  She  said  she  ‘hated  the  horrible 
old  place!*  because  Crabbe  Osborne  couldn’t  go 
there.” 

“He  didn’t  mind  that,”  Mrs.  Dodge  remarked. 
“He  went  anyhow  until  they  sent  him  a  note  re¬ 
minding  him  he  wasn’t  a  member.  That  was  why  Lily 
said  she  hated  it  and  we  couldn’t  get  her  to  go  any 
more.  I  was  surprised  she  decided  to  go  to-night, 
since  she  knows  he  can’t  be  there.” 

“There’s  the  very  point  I’m  making,”  her  husband 
said.  “Two  weeks  ago  we’d  both  have  thought  it 
was  the  last  thing  in  the  world  she’d  consent  to  do, 
and  this  evening  we  didn’t  even  suggest  it  to  her; 
she  went  of  her  own  volition,  and  cheerfully,  too!  I 
ask  you  if  that  doesn’t  show  she’s  a  different  creature. 
And  isn’t  it  better  for  two  to  suffer  than  three?” 

“I  ask  2/ow,”  she  returned,  sharply:  “How  short 
sighted  are  you?  We’re  giving  her  a  recess  from  pain, 
yes;  but  what  are  we  thrusting  her  into?  When  she 
does  see  him  as  he  is,  and  finds  herself  bound  to  him 
for  life,  isn’t  she  going  to  turn  to  us  then,  when  it’s 
too  late,  and  say:  ‘Why  didn’t  you  save  me?’  ” 

“Oh,  Lord!”  the  father  groaned,  and  his  gesture 


120  WOMEN 

was  that  of  a  man  who  has  tried  to  make  the  best 
of  his  misery,  but  abandons  the  effort.  “I  don’t 
know!  I  can’t  see!  When  you  put  it  like  that,  I 
don’t  know  whether  we’re  doing  right  or  wrong.”  He 
paced  the  library  floor,  walking  heavily,  his  head 
down.  “It’s  a  miserable  thing  any  way  you  look  at 
it,”  he  said.  “I  did  have  just  one  slight  alleviation:  it 
seemed  to  me  I  bore  it  a  little  better,  having  him  at 
the  dinner-table  this  week,  than  I  did  the  week  before. 
It  seemed  to  me  maybe  it  might  be  because  I  was 
getting  to  like  him  a  little,  perhaps.” 

“No,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said,  grimly.  “It  was  because 
he  was  here  five  times  the  first  week  and  only  three 
the  second.” 

“Is  that  so.f^”  He  stopped  his  pacing  and  stood 
still.  “  So  she  asked  him  five  times  the  first  week  and 
only  three  the  second.  Doesn’t  that  look  as  if 
maybe - ” 

“No,  I’m  afraid  not,”  his  wife  interrupted,  unhesi¬ 
tatingly  destroying  this  obscure  germ  of  hope. 
“When  you  give  a  child  a  toy  it’ll  play  with  it  more  at 
first  than  it  will  later.  That  doesn’t  mean  the  child 
won’t  cry  if  you  try  to  take  the  toy  away,  does  it?” 

“No,  I  suppose  not.”  He  had  relapsed  into  gloom 


LILY’S  ENGAGEMENT  ni 

again.  “And  I  suppose  my  poor  little  alleviation 
was - ” 

“Your  ‘alleviation,’”  Mrs.  Dodge  informed  him, 
“was  in  the  diminished  number  of  the  acute  attacks 
— three  instead  of  five — and  not  because  you  began  to 
feel  any  affection  for  the  disease  itself.” 

“I’m  afraid  you’re  right,”  he  said.  “And  I’m  afraid 
you’ve  found  the  correct  definition  for  what  afflicts 
us.”  He  sank  into  a  chair,  unhappily  limp  and  relaxed, 
his  arms  hanging  fiaccidly  over  the  arms  of  the  chair. 
“Crabbe  Osborne  is  our  disease,”  he  said.  “It’s  a 
disease  the  more  awful  because  when  a  child  gets  it 
the  parents  get  it,  too,  and  when  they  give  the  child 
an  opiate  they  only  stop  her  pain  for  a  little  while; 
and  then  the  child  and  the  parents,  all  three  of  ’em, 
have  got  to  have  the  disease  for  the  rest  of  their 
lives!  And  the  greatest  mystery  of  it  all  is  that 
an  absolutely  chance  boy,  with  no  malice,  no  harm 
in  him — a  mere  drifting  bit  of  fiesh  and  nothing,  that 
we’d  never  heard  of  a  year  ago — that  a  meaningless 
thing  like  Crabbe  Osborne  should  do  all  this  to  us!” 

“It  isn’t,”  she  said.  “He  has  nothing  whatever  to 
do  with  it.  It’s  Lily’s  imagination.  Her  imagination 
was  in  the  state  to  get  the  disease,  and  it  just  hap- 


122 


WOMEN 


pened  this  boy  was  the  nearest  thing  at  a  crucial 
moment.  It  might  as  well  have  happened  to  be 
someone  else.” 

“If  it  had  only  been  any  one  else!”  Mr.  Dodge 
exclaimed.  “I’m  willing  to  agree  with  you,  though: 
Crabbe  just  happened  to  be  the  fatal  microbe.  Well, 
he’s  done  for  us,  that’s  sure!” 

Mrs.  Dodge  glanced  sidelong  at  him — she  was  mak¬ 
ing  intermittent  efforts  to  read,  and  a  table  and  a 
lamp  were  between  them.  “‘Done  for  us.^’  Well, 
you  said  there  was  no  alternative,  didn’t  you.^^  It’s 
your  policy,  isn’t  it?” 

“I  suppose  so,”  he  groaned.  “I  suppose  so, 
Lydia.”  Then,  shaking  his  head  ruefully,  and  with  a 
grunt  of  desolate  laughter  in  his  throat,  he  said:  “I 
know,  of  course,  that  you’re  going  to  lash  me  with  it 
— my  ‘policy’ — for  the  rest  of  our  lives!” 

But  this  was  a  prediction  unfulfilled,  for  they  had 
missed  a  clew  that  was  in  their  hands;  or,  more  ac¬ 
curately,  it  had  been  in  their  mouths,  and  they  had 
actually  spoken  it.  A  toy  withheld  becomes  the  uni¬ 
verse  to  a  child,  and  a  lover  withheld  is  life  and  death; 
but  toys  and  lovers  freely  given  are  another  matter. 
What  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dodge  failed  to  see  was  the  sig¬ 
nificant  relation  of  five  to  three. 


LILY’S  ENGAGEMENT 


123 


.  .  .  The  gloomy  parents,  despondently  com¬ 

muning,  were  still  in  the  library  at  midnight  when 
Lily  came  home.  They  heard  her  laughter  outside 
before  the  latchkey  turned  in  the  lock  of  the  front 
door;  and  then,  with  the  opening  of  the  door,  her 
voice  sounded  in  a  gay  chattering  like  a  nm  of 
staccato  notes  in  an  aria  of  spring.  Accompanying 
it,  interrupting  it,  there  was  heard  a  ’cello  obbligato, 
a  masculine  voice,  young  and  lively,  and  this  short 
duet  closed  with  Lily’s  “See  you  day-after-to¬ 
morrow  !  ” 

She  came  dancing  into  the  library,  all  white  fur 
and  flying  silk. 

“Oh,  you  mustn’t!”  she  cried.  “You  dear  things, 
you  mustn’t  sit  up  for  me !  ” 

“We  didn’t,”  her  mother  said.  “We  were  just 
reading.  Who  was  it  that  brought  you  home.^  I 
asked  your  Aunt  Sarah - ” 

“Oh,  no!  Aunt  Sarah  was  there,  but  I  didn’t  want 
to  trouble  her  to  come  out  of  her  way.”  Lily  seated 
herself  lightly  on  the  arm  of  her  mother’s  chair,  let¬ 
ting  one  cheerful  foot  swing  and  resting  an  affection¬ 
ate  hand  upon  Mrs.  Dodge’s  shoulder.  “Freddie 
Haines  brought  me  home.  He’s  a  nice  boy.” 

“Is  he?” 


124 


WOMEN 


“I  like  him  awf’ly,”  said  Lily.  “I  danced  with  lots 
of  others,  though,  too.  I  didn’t  want  ’em  to  think  I 
was  only  going  to  dance  with  nobody  but  Fred.” 
“Didn’t  you.?'” 

“Freddie  Haines  is  considerate,”  said  Lily.  “He 
doesn’t  mind  my  being  an  old  engaged  girl  at  all.” 
Upon  this  she  looked  across  to  meet  her  father’s 
frowning  glance,  and  laughed.  “Oh,  Fred  won’t  tell; 
he’s  never  going  to  mention  it.  I  didn’t  forget  I 
promised  you  to  keep  it  under  cover  until  we’re  ready 
to  have  it  announced.  I  haven’t  told  any  one  but 
Fred,  and  I’m  not  going  to.”  Here  she  jumped  down 
from  her  mother’s  chair,  took  an  apple  daintily  from 
a  bowl  on  the  table,  and  skipped  to  the  door,  laugh¬ 
ing  reminiscently.  “He  didn’t  take  it  seriously,  any¬ 
how!”  she  said  as  she  went  out.  Then,  humming  a 
dance  tune,  she  ran  upstairs  to  her  bed. 

In  the  library  the  astounded  parents  gazed  long 
upon  each  other,  and  the  longer  they  gazed  the  wider 
were  their  eyes. 

“Well,  at  least  there’s  this  much  to  be  said  for 
me,”  Lily’s  father  said,  finally; — “when  we  decided 
to  adopt  my  policy - ” 

“Your  what?”  cried  Mrs.  Dodge.  “Your  policy!” 

He  perceived  that  his  policy  was  about  to  be 


LILY’S  ENGAGEMENT 


125 


claimed  by  another — ^not  instantly,  nor  brazenly, 
but  nevertheless  with  a  slowly  growing  assurance  that 
in  time  would  browbeat  him. 

To-night  his  wife  said,  “Your  'policy!'*  The  day 
would  come  when  she  would  say  “Towr  policy?” 


XI 

MRS.  Cromwell’s  youngest  daughter 


CORNELIA  CROMWELL,  having  passed  her 
sixteenth  birthday  anniversary,  had  begun 
to  think  seriously  about  life  and  books,  and 
was  causing  her  parents  some  anxiety.  She  declined 
a  birthday  party,  although  in  former  years  such 
festivals  had  obviously  meant  to  her  the  topmost 
of  her  heart’s  desire;  and  she  expressed  her  reasons 
for  this  refusal  in  a  baffling  manner.  “I  simply  don’t 
care  to  have  one,”  she  said,  coldly.  “Isn’t  that 
enough.?^”  Then,  being  further  pressed,  and  in¬ 
formed  that  this  repeated  explanation  of  hers  was 
one  of  those  not  uncommon  explanations  that  do 
not  explain,  she  said  with  visibly  increasing  annoy¬ 
ance:  “Frankly,  it  would  be  a  useless  expense,  be¬ 
cause  I  don’t  care  to  have  a  party.” 

“She’s  so  queer  lately,”  her  mother  complained  to 
Cornelia’s  married  sister  Mdldred.  “She  won’t  go 
to  other  girls’  parties  either.  Of  course,  it  isn’t 

desirable  often,  while  she’s  still  in  school,  but  there 

126 


MRS.  C.’S  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER  m 


are  a  few  she  really  ought  to  go  to,  especially  now, 
during  the  holidays.  She  simply  refuses — says  she 
‘doesn’t  care  to.’  It  isn’t  natural,  and  I  don’t  know 
what  to  make  of  it,  she’s  grown  so  moody.” 

“Don’t  you  think  young  girls  nearly  all  get  like 
that  sometimes?”  Mildred  suggested.  “Perhaps 
somebody  hurt  her  feelings  at  the  last  party  she  did 
go  to.”  She  laughed  reminiscently.  “I  remember 
when  I  was  about  her  age  I  was  terribly  anxious  to 
please  that  funny  little  Paul  Thompson,  who  used 
to  live  next  door.  He  danced  with  me  twice  at  some¬ 
body’s  birthday  party,  and  I  felt  perfectly  uplifted 
about  it.  Then  I  overheard  him  talking  to  another 
boy,  not  thinking  I  was  near  him.  He  said  his 
mother  had  told  him  he  must  be  polite  to  me  or  he 
wouldn’t  have  done  it,  and  he  certainly  never  would 
again,  no  matter  what  his  mother  said,  because  I’d 
walked  all  over  his  new  pumps.  It  just  crushed  me, 
and  I  know  I  moped  around  the  house  for  days  after¬ 
ward;  but  I  wouldn’t  tell  you  what  was  the  matter. 
It’s  the  most  terribly  sensitive  age  we  go  through. 
Mamma,  and  I  just  couldnH  have  told  you.  Per¬ 
haps  there’s  been  a  Paul  Thompson  for  Cornelia.” 

“No,”  Mrs.  Cromwell  returned.  “I’m  sure  there 
isn’t,  and  that  nobody’s  hurt  her  feelings.  She  came 


ns 


WOMEN 


home  from  the  last  party  she  went  to,  a  couple  of 
months  ago,  in  a  perfect  gale  of  high  spirits;  she’d  had 
a  glorious  time.  Then,  a  week  or  two  later,  when  I 
spoke  of  arranging  for  her  birthday,  she  got  very 
moody — wouldn’t  hear  of  any  such  thing;  and  she’s 
been  so  ever  since.  Your  father’s  getting  cross 
about  it  and  thinks  we  ought  to  do  something.” 

“You  don’t  suppose — you  don’t  suppose  she’s 
fallen  in  love?  It  does  happen,  you  know.  Mamma 
— even  at  fifteen  and  sixteen.” 

“No,”  Mrs.  Cromwell  returned  decidedly.  “I’m 
certain  it  isn’t  that.  She’s  sensible  about  the  boys 
she  knows,  and  she’s  never  shown  the  slightest  senti¬ 
mentality.  I’ve  thought  over  all  those  things,  and 
it  isn’t  any  of  them.  Nothing’s  the  matter  with  her 
health  either;  so  there  just  isn’t  any  reason  at  all  for 
a  change  in  her.  Yet  she  has  changed — completely. 
In  the  space  of  a  few  weeks — you  might  almost  say 
a  few  days — instead  of  being  the  bright,  romping, 
responsive  girl  she’s  always  been,  she’s  become  so 
silent  and  remote  you’d  think  the  rest  of  her  family 
were  mere  distant  and  rather  inferior  acquaintances. 
It’s  mysterious  and  extremely  uncomfortable.  Your 
father  thinks  we  ought  to  send  her  away  to  school 
where  she’d  have  a  complete  change,  and  I’ve  had 


MRS.  C.’S  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER  129 


some  correspondence  about  it  with  Miss  Remy  of 
your  old  school.  I  think  perhaps - ” 

Mrs.  Cromwell  stopped  speaking,  her  attention 
arrested  by  the  sound  of  a  door  opening  and  closing. 
She  listened  for  a  moment,  then  whispered:  “There! 
She’s  just  come  in.  See  for  yourself.” 

The  two  ladies  were  sitting  in  a  room  that  opened 
upon  the  broad  central  hallway  of  the  house,  and 
their  view  of  that  part  of  the  black-and-white  marble- 
floored  hall  just  beyond  the  open  double  doors  was 
unimpeded.  Here  appeared  in  profile  the  subject 
of  their  discussion,  a  plump  brunette  demoiselle, 
rosy-cheeked  and  far  from  uncomely,  but  weightily 
preoccupied  with  her  own  thoughts. 

She  did  not  even  glance  into  the  room  where  sat 
her  mother  and  sister,  though  the  doorway  was  so 
wide  that  she  must  have  been  conscious  of  them; — 
she  was  going  toward  the  stairway  at  the  other  end  of 
the  hall,  and  would  have  passed  without  offering  any 
greeting,  if  her  mother’s  voice,  a  little  strained,  had 
not  checked  her. 

“Cornelia!” 

The  girl  paused  unwillingly.  “Yes?” 

“Don’t  you  see  who’s  here?” 

“Yes.”  Cornelia  nodded  vaguely  in  the  direction 


130 


WOMEN 


of  her  sister.  “How  do  you  do,”  she  said,  not  smil¬ 
ing.  “I’m  glad  to  see  you.” 

“Is  that  all  you  have  to  say?”  Mrs.  Cromwell 
inquired. 

“Yes,  Mamma,  if  you  please.  May  I  go  now? 
There’s  something  important  I  want  to  attend  to.” 

“What  is  it?” 

“Something  important.” 

“You  told  us  that,”  her  mother  returned.  “What 
is  it?” 

Cornelia’s  voice  expressed  the  strained  tolerance 
of  a  person  who  has  already  reported,  over  and  over, 
all  the  known  facts  in  a  case.  “Mamma,  I  explained 
that  it’s  something  important.  Would  you  mind 
letting  me  go?” 

“No !  Do !  ”  her  mother  replied  crisply,  and,  when 
Cornelia  had  disappeared,  turned  again  to  her  oldest 
daughter,  and  with  widespread  hands  made  the  ges¬ 
ture  of  one  displaying  strange  stuff  for  inspection. 

“You  see?  That’s  what  she’s  like  all  the  time.” 

“What  do  you  suppose  it  is  she  says  is  so  impor¬ 
tant?” 

Mrs.  Cromwell  laughed  ruefully.  “That’s  all 
you’d  ever  find  out  about  it  from  her.  If  I  ask  her 
again  at  lunch  what  it  was,  she’ll  do  just  what  she 


MRS.  C.’S  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER  131 


did  then.  Her  expression  will  show  that  she  finds 
me  a  very  trying  person,  and  she’ll  either  say,  ‘Noth¬ 
ing,’  or  else,  ‘It  was  something  I  wanted  to  attend 
to.’  And  if  we  should  follow  her  up  to  her  room 
now,  we  shouldn'c  learn  any  more  about  it.  She’d 
probably  be  just  pottering  at  her  dressing-table  or 
looking  out  of  the  window.  That’s  all  we’d  find  her 
doing.” 

In  this  surmise  Mrs.  Cromwell  was  correct; — ^if 
she  and  Mildred  had  ascended  to  Cornelia’s  room, 
they  would  have  found  her  either  rearranging  the 
silver  and  porcelain  trifies  on  her  dressing-table,  or 
else  standing  at  the  window  near  her  desk  and  looking 
down  pensively  upon  the  suburban  boulevard  below. 
That  is  to  say,  by  the  time  they  opened  the  door 
she  would  have  been  doing  one  of  those  two  things: 
Cornelia  was  quick  of  hearing. 

What  they  would  have  found  her  doing,  if  they 
could  have  entered  her  room  without  any  forewarning 
sound  of  footsteps,  however,  was  another  matter. 
While  her  mother  and  sister  continued  to  wonder 
about  her  downstairs,  Cornelia  went  to  her  small 
desk  of  dull  mahogany  and  seated  herself  before  it, 
but,  having  done  that,  did  nothing  else  for  a  minute 
or  two; — instead,  she  sat  listening,  a  precaution  due 


132 


WOMEN 


to  the  possibility  that  her  mother  might  indeed  prove 
60  curious  as  to  follow  up  recent  inquiries  in  person. 

Then  she  opened  the  desk,  and  after  a  final  glance 
at  her  closed  door,  took  from  about  her  neck,  beneath 
the  collar  of  her  brown  silk  blouse,  a  tiny  key  upon 
a  fragile  gold  chain  of  links  as  slim  as  thin  wire. 
With  the  key  she  unlocked  a  drawer  inside  the  desk, 
and  as  she  did  this  her  expression  altered; — the 
guarded  look  vanished,  and  there  came  in  its  place  a 
tenderness,  wistful  and  yet  so  keen  that  the  colour 
in  her  cheeks  heightened  and  her  softened  eyes 
grew  lustrous. 

She  took  first  from  the  drawer  a  little  notebook 
bound  in  black  leather,  and  opened  it.  All  the  pages 
were  blank  except  the  first  one,  upon  which  she  had 
lately  written  the  opening  sentence  of  a  novel  that 
she  intended  to  offer  the  world  when  the  work  had 
been  secretly  completed.  She  read  the  sentence  over 
fondly  and  yet  with  some  perplexity.  It  was  this: 

Gregory  Harlford  had  just  fallen  out  of  his  airoplane  at  a  height 
of  7000  feet  and  as  he  possessed  no  parachute  he  realized  that  only 
a  miracle  could  save  him  from  being  dashed  to  pieces  at  the  end  of 
his  descent. 

That  was  the  original  form  of  the  sentence,  but 
Cornelia  had  made  an  alteration.  She  had  scratched 


MRS.  C.’S  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER  133 


out  “7000”  and  replaced  it  with  “5000.”  To-day 
she  looked  at  the  latter  figure  thoughtfully  for  some 
time,  and,  having  drawn  a  line  through  it,  wrote 
“  1000  ”  above  it.  Then,  for  a  few  moments,  she  had 
an  encouraged  look  and  seemed  about  to  begin  a 
second  sentence,  but  did  not  do  so.  Instead,  she 
rested  her  elbow  upon  the  desk  and  her  chin  upon 
tier  hand;  and  as  she  continued  her  study  of  the  open¬ 
ing  of  her  novel,  her  air  of  being  encouraged  gave 
way  to  a  renewed  bafflement.  It  was  not  that  the 
opening  sentence  displeased  her; — on  the  contrary. 
Yet  whenever  she  wished  to  add  another  and  get 
on  with  the  story,  she  came  to  one  of  those  inexplica¬ 
ble  blank  gaps  in  the  creative  mind,  one  of  those  flat 
stops  that  so  often  set  even  the  most  willing  novelists 
to  walking  the  floor  or  the  links. 

She  was  sure  that  if  she  could  once  surmount  the 
difflculty  of  the  second  sentence,  the  rest  would  flow 
easily  from  her.  Gregory  Harlford  was  to  be  the 
hero  of  her  story,  and  she  had  in  her  mind’s  eye  a 
remarkably  definite  portrait  of  him,  which  she 
wished  to  include  in  the  novel;  but  she  felt  that 
under  the  circumstances  a  description  of  his  person 
and  attributes  would  be  out  of  place  in  the  second 
sentence.  There  was  a  vague  but  persistent  im- 


134 


WOMEN 


pediment  somewhere; — inspiration  failed  to  make  an 
appearance,  and,  after  waiting  almost  fifteen  minutes 
for  it,  she  sighed,  pushed  the  little  book  away  and 
turned  to  the  other  contents  of  the  drawer. 

There  were  several  queer  items:  the  stub  of  an 
almost  entirely  consumed  lead  pencil;  an  odd  bit  of 
broken  amber,  not  quite  cylindrical,  and  half  of 
an  old  shoe-lace.  There  were  also  a  dozen  dried 
violets,  a  flattened  rosebud,  and  a  packet  of  small 
sheets  of  note  paper  whereon  appeared  cryptic  de¬ 
signs — line  drawings  most  curious.  These  enigmas 
were  what  now  occupied  Cornelia. 

They  were  her  own  handiwork;  nobody  had  even 
seen  any  of  them,  and  they  were  of  different  ages. 
The  oldest  of  the  designs  had  been  drawn  long,  long 
ago; — that  is  to  say,  long,  long  ago,  according  to 
Cornelia’s  sense  of  the  passage  of  time.  For  she  was 
sixteen  now,  and  she  had  made  the  first  of  the  queer 
drawings  four  eternal  years  earlier,  when  she  was 
only  a  child. 

It  appeared  to  be  the  i^presentation  in  profile  of  a 
steep  stairway,  or  perhaps  a  series  of  superimposed 
cliffs,  each  with  a  small  shelf  at  its  base.  Beginning 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sheet  of  paper,  this  stairway,  or 
series  of  cliffs,  rose  to  a  small  plateau  or  summit  near 


MRS.  C.’S  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER  135 


the  top;  and  upon  each  step,  or  shelf  of  cliff,  there 
was  drawn  one  of  those  little  figures  children  call 
“men”; — the  body  is  emaciated  to  the  extent  that 
it  becomes  a  single  straight  line,  the  arms  and  legs 
being  similar  lines,  and  the  head  a  round  black  dot. 

In  Cornelia  s 
drawing,  each  of 
these  little  figures 
was  labelled,  a 
name  having  been 
written  beside  it; 
and  in  some  cases 
a  descriptive  word 
or  two  had  been 
added  beneath  the 
name.  Thus,  under  the  name  “Georgie  P.”,  which 
evidently  belonged  to  the  figure  occupying  the 
lowest  step  or  shelf,  there  appeared  in  faded  purple 
ink  a  phrase  of  qualified  admiration,  “Half  Hand¬ 
some.”  Another  expression  of  an  enthusiasm  lim¬ 
ited  by  a  defect  in  its  subject  seemed  to  refer  to 
“Harold,”  midway  in  the  ascent — “Terribly  Good 
Looking  But  Stingy.”  However,  the  figure  upon 
the  summit,  named  in  full,  “William  Peterson 
McAvoy,”  was  obviously  the  symbol  of  a  being 


136 


WOMEN 


without  flaw,  for  here  Cornelia  had  carefully  printed, 
all  in  capital  letters:  ‘‘ABSOLUTELY  PERFECT.’’ 

Yet,  in  the  next  drawing,  which,  like  all  the  others, 
was  of  the  same  stairway,  or  series  of  cliffs,  with  little 

“men”  upon  the  steps  or  ledges, 
a  sharp  disaster  had  befallen 
this  figure  adorning  with  its  per¬ 
fection  the  summit  of  the  first 
design.  Cornelia  had  drawn  a 
straight  line  from  the  summit 

oi!  ,  bottom  of 

-  <'  the  page; 

and  evidently  this  straight  line  indicated  a  precipice 
of  catastrophical  dimension.  At  the  foot  of  it  lay 
the  dot  and  five  lines  representing  the  head,  body,  and 
members  of  William  Peterson  McAvoy,  again  thus 
denominated,  and  near  by  was  written  the  simple  ex¬ 
planation,  “Too  Snooty.”  The  summit  was  bare. 

In  a  subsequent  design,  done  when  Cornelia  was 
thirteen,  the  half  handsome  Georgie  P.,  who  had 
sometimes  occupied  one  step  and  sometimes  another, 
finally  made  his  appearance  upon  the  summit, 

though  without  any  other  explanatory  tribute  than 

a  date:  “Sept.  16th.”  But  Georgie  P.  did  not 


MRS.  C.’S  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER  137 


long  remain  in  his  high  position.  A  drawing  made 
only  a  week  later  depicted  him  miserably  upon  his 
back  at  the  foot  of  the  precipice,  and  beside  him 
Cornelia  had  written:  ‘‘Perfectly  Odious.  Well  only 
another  dream  shatered.” 

All  of  the  drawings  were  dated  and  thus  proved 
that  they  were  made  at  irregular  intervals; — some¬ 
times  two  or  three  months  had  elapsed  between 
them;  sometimes  three  or  four  would  be  produced 
within  a  week;  and  the  figures  upon  the  steps  or 
ledges  varied  in  name  and  relative  position  as  greatly, 
though  one  or  two  of  the  names  appeared  upon  all 
of  the  designs  except  the  last  and  most  recent  one. 
This  had  been  drawn  only  a  month  ago,  and  was 
interestingly  different  from  its  predecessors. 

One  thing  that  made  it  different  was  the  fact  that 
it  contained  a  Mister.  In  the  others  there  were 
Georgies  and  Harolds  and  Williams  and  Toms  and 
Johnnies;  but  now,  for  the  first  time,  with  unique 
dignity,  appeared  “Mr.  Bromley,”  neither  a  Mister 
nor  a  Bromley  having  been  seen  upon  any  previous 
step  or  ledge.  Moreover,  this  debut  of  his  was  un¬ 
precedented.  Instead  of  occupying  one  ledge  and 
then  another,  sometimes  ascending,  sometimes  de¬ 
scending,  before  reaching  the  final  elevation,  Mr^^ 


138 


WOMEN 


Bromley  made  his  first  appearance  strikingly  upon 
the  summit.  More  than  this,  the  ledges  below  him 
were  unoccupied; — the  lofty  plateau  alone  was 
^  n  p  inhabited.  The  Harolds  and 
Johnnies  and  Georgies  were 
gone  utterly  from  the  picture, 
as  if  unworthy  to  be  seen  at  all  upon  a 
mountain  crowned  with  this  supreme 
Mister. 

For  the  cliffs,  or  stairway,  meant  a 
mountain  to  Cornelia; — she  thought  of 
the  drawings  as  a  mountain;  and  she 
called  the  little  packet,  kept  in  the 
locked  drawer,  “My  Mountain.”  Her  mountain 
was  her  own  picture  of  her  heart  and  of  the  impres¬ 
sions  made  upon  it; — no  wonder  she  kept  it  locked 
away!  And  now  it  was  a  deeper  secret  than  ever, 
for  in  its  present  state  it  glorified  the  one  name  alone, 
and  would  have  told  her  world  everything.  Mr. 
Bromley  was  the  “English  Professor,”  aged  forty- 
three,  at  the  boarding-school  where  she  was  a  day 
scholar;  and  not  long  ago  he  had  told  her  she  ought 
to  think  “less  about  candy  and  more  about  books 
and  life.”  That  was  what  was  the  matter  with 
Cornelia; — she  had  begun  her  novel  immediately, 


MRS.  C.’S  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER  139 


and  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  in  her  room,  thinking 
about  life  and  Mr.  Bromley. 

Mr.  Bromley  was  the  hero  of  the  novel  and 
Cornelia  thought  of  him  as  Gregory  Harlford.  The 
general  public  would  never  have  supposed  Mr. 
Bromley  to  be  an  aviator,  and  he  had  no  claim,  in 
fact,  to  be  thought  anything  so  dashing,  though  he 
was  fond  of  chess  and  still  played  tennis  sometimes. 
Nevertheless,  he  seemed  to  be  a  quietly  resourceful 
man,  one  who  would  find  a  way  out  of  almost  any 
difficulty,  and  it  was  strange  that  he  remained  so  long 
suspended  in  mid-air,  in  Cornelia’s  story,  even  after 
the  vacancy  beneath  him  had  been  reduced  to  a  thou¬ 
sand  feet.  For,  after  looking  over  her  mountain,  Cor¬ 
nelia  again  took  up  the  little  leather-bound  notebook 
and  renewed  the  struggle  for  a  second  sentence. 

Nothing  resulted,  and,  sighing,  she  gave  over  the 
effort  and  performed  a  little  daily  ceremonial  of  hers, 
placing  side  by  side  in  a  row  her  mementoes  of  Mr. 
Bromley — the  stub  of  the  pencil  he  had  used,  the 
worn  shoe-lace  he  had  broken  and  carelessly  tossed 
aside,  the  rosebud  she  k^d  once  ::rked  him  to  smell, 
the  violets  that  had  dropped  from  his  coat  lapel,  and 
the  fragment  of  the  amber  mouthpiece  of  his  pipe, 
broken  when  it  fell  from  his  pocket  upon  the  stone 


140 


WOMEN 


steps  of  the  school  building.  Dreamily,  she  put 
them  all  in  a  row,  touching  them  gently,  one  after 
the  other;  then  she  leaned  her  elbows  upon  the  desk 
and,  with  her  chin  in  her  hands,  thought  about  life 
and  books  in  a  general  way  for  several  minutes. 

After  that,  as  the  air  was  warm  in  the  room,  she 
went  to  the  window  and  opened  it.  Looking  down 
moodily,  she  saw  her  sister  Mildred  departing.  “Go¬ 
ing  home  to  mess  around  with  the  baby,’’  Cornelia 
thought.  “That’s  her  life.  How  strange  she  can 
be  contented  with  it!” 

A  large  red  open  car  went  by,  sending  forth  upon 
the  wintry  air  some  cheerful  cadences  of  song  as  it 
passed; — young  gentlemen  collegians  merrymaking 
not  indecorously  in  this  holiday  time.  Cornelia 
looked  down  upon  the  manly  young  faces,  rosy  with 
the  wind.  “  How  terrible !  ”  she  murmured,  dreamily. 
For  they  were  no  part  of  her  mountain;  her  sister’s 
baby  had  nothing  to  do  with  Mr.  Bromley;  neither 
had  the  song  from  the  big  red  car;  both  were  dross. 

A  negro  rattled  by  upon  an  ash  cart  drawn  by  a 
lively  mule.  The  negro  whistled  piercingly  to  a 
friend  in  the  distance,  and  the  mule’s  splendid  ears 
stood  high  and  eager;  he  was  noble  in  action,  worthy 
of  all  attention.  Cornelia  could  not  bear  him.  “Oh, 


MRS.  C.’S  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER  141 

dear!”  she  said,  probably  thinking  of  his  master,  who 
was  proud  of  him.  “What  lives  these  people  lead!” 

She  was  in  the  act  of  turning  away  from  this 
barren  window  when  something  far  down  the  street 
caught  her  attention.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  thin, 
somewhat  middle-aged  gentleman  in  gray  clothes, 
approaching  slowly  upon  the  sidewalk.  For  a  mo¬ 
ment  Cornelia  was  uncertain;  then  there  appeared 
for  an  instant,  beneath  the  rim  of  his  soft  hat,  twin 
sparklings  of  reflected  light.  They  vanished,  but 
Cornelia  needed  no  further  proof  that  the  gentleman 
in  gray  wore  the  eye-glasses  that  completed  her  iden¬ 
tification  of  him. 

She  said,  in  a  loud  voice,  and  clapped  her 

joined  hands  over  her  mouth  to  stifle  this  too-eloquent 
revelation.  Then  the  bright  eyes  above  the  joined 
hands  semicircled  impulsively  to  the  bed,  where  lay 
her  hat  and  coat  as  she  had  tossed  them  when  she 
came  into  the  room.  The  impulse  that  made  her 
look  at  them  increased  overwhelmingly;  she  seized 
them,  put  them  on  hurriedly;  opened  her  door  with 
elaborate  caution,  tiptoed  to  a  back  stairway,  de¬ 
scended  it  noiselessly,  and  a  moment  later  left  the 
house  by  a  rear  door.  No  one  had  seen  her  except 
the  cook’s  cat. 


XII 


HER  HAPPIEST  HOUR 


Thus  Comelia  saved  herself  from  replying 
to  intrusive  questions  about  where  she  was 
going,  and  why;  but  in  her  impulsive  haste 
she  had  forgotten  something.  Upon  her  desk,  up¬ 
stairs,  lay  her  heart’s  secret,  her  mountain,  all  in 
loose  sheets  of  paper.  Beside  the  desk  was  an  open 
window; — she  had  left  the  door  open,  too,  and  this 
was  a  breezy  day.  Such  was  instantly  her  condition 
at  sight  of  Mr.  Bromley;  and  with  no  thought  but 
to  have  more  sight  of  him,  she  flitted  across  the  back 
yard  and  through  an  alley  gate,  leaving  calamity 
brooding  behind  her. 

Mr.  Bromley,  returning  homeward  with  a  book 
under  his  arm,  after  his  morning’s  browsing  in  the 
suburban  public  library,  was  not  surprised  to  see  one 
of  his  pupils  emerge  from  a  cross-street  before  him, 
since  this  was  the  neighbourhood  in  which  most  of 
the  school’s  day  scholars  lived;  but  he  wondered  why 
Cornelia  Cromwell  was  so  deeply  preoccupied.  She 

142 


HER  HAPPIEST  HOUR 


143 


seemed  to  look  toward  him,  though  vaguely,  and  he 
lifted  his  hand  to  his  hat;  but  before  he  could  com¬ 
plete  his  salutation  she  looked  away,  apparently 
unconscious  of  him.  She  was  walking  in  a  rather 
elderly  manner,  with  her  head  inclined  forward  and 
her  hands  meditatively  clasped  behind  her — the 
right  posture  for  an  engrossed  statesman  philoso¬ 
pher,  but  not  frequently  expected  of  sixteen.  At  the 
corner  she  turned  northward  upon  the  boulevard 
sidewalk,  Mr.  Bromley’s  own  direction,  and  went 
pensively  on  before  him,  some  thirty  yards  or  so  in 
advance. 

His  gait  was  slow,  for  that  was  his  thoughtful 
habit;  and  the  distance  between  them,  like  Cornelia’s 
attitude,  remained  unvaried  until  the  next  cross¬ 
street  was  reached.  Here,  without  altering  that 
scholarly  attitude  of  hers  by  a  hair’s-breadth,  she 
walked  straight  into  what  was  the  proper  path  and 
right-of-way  demanded  by  an  oncoming  uproarious 
taxicab. 

With  his  hoarse  warning  signal  and  with  his  own 
hoarse  voice,  the  driver  raved;  she  heeded  him  not. 
So,  taking  his  life  in  his  hands,  he  saved  her  by  charg¬ 
ing  into  the  curbstone.  The  wheels  providentially 
mounted  and  bore  him  fairly  upon  the  sidewalk; — 


144 


WOMEN 


he  crashed  down  again  to  the  pavement  of  the  boule* 
vard  and  roared  onward,  Biblically  oratorical  about 
women,  let  hear  him  who  would. 

Mr.  Bromley  rushed  forward  and  seized  Cornelia’s 
arm.  “Miss  Cromwell!” 

She  looked  up,  smiling  absently.  “Do  you  think 
there  was  any  danger?”  she  asked.  “I  didn’t 
notice.” 

“Good  gracious!”  he  cried.  “Don’t  you  know 
you  can’t  cross  streets  an^/where,  these  days,  without 
looking  to  see  what’s  coming?  What  was  the  matter 
with  you?” 

“The  matter?”  she  repeated,  vaguely,  as  she  began 
to  walk  onward  with  him.  “Why,  nothing.” 

“I  mean:  What  on  earth  were  you  thinking  of  to 
step  right  in  front  of  a - ” 

“Oh,  that?  Yes,”  she  said,  gently.  “I  see  what 
you  mean  now,  Mr.  Bromley.  I  was  thinking  about 
life.” 

“You  were,  indeed?” 

“And  books,”  she  added. 

“Well,  I  wouldn’t!”  he  said,  for  he  had  long  since 
forgotten  his  advice  to  her  in  the  matter.  “If  I 
were  you,  I’d  put  my  mind  more  upon  street  crossings, 
especially  during  pedestrian  excursions.” 


HER  HAPPIEST  HOUR 


145 


She  accepted  the  reproof  meekly,  not  replying, 
and  for  some  moments  walked  beside  him  in  silence. 
Then  she  said  gravely:  ‘T  believe  I  haven’t  thanked 
you  for  saving  my  life.” 

“What?” 

She  repeated  it:  “I  haven’t  thanked  you  for 
saving  my  life.” 

“Good  gracious!”  he  exclaimed.  “I  didn’t  do 
anything  of  the  kind.” 

“You  did,  Mr.  Bromley.” 

“I  certainly  did  not,”  he  said,  astonished  that 
she  seemed  genuinely  to  believe  such  a  thing.  “The 
taxicab  was  banging  around  all  over  the  sidewalk 
by  the  time  I  reached  you.” 

“No,”  she  insisted.  “I  heard  you  call  my  name, 
and  then  you  took  hold  of  me.  If  you  hadn’t,  I’d 
have  gone  straight  on.” 

“Well,  you’d  have  been  all  right  to  go  straight  on, 
because  by  that  time  the  taxicab  was  twenty  or 
thirty  feet  away.” 

“No,  I’d  have  been  killed,”  she  said.  “If  you 
hadn’t  caught  me,  I’d  have  been  killed  absolutely.” 

He  stared  at  her,  perplexed,  though  he  knew  that 
people  often  retain  but  a  confused  recollection  of 
exciting  moments,  even  immediately  after  those 


146 


WOMEN 


moments  have  passed.  Then,  with  this  thought  in 
his  mind,  he  was  a  little  surprised  to  find  that  she 
simultaneously  had  it  in  her  mind,  too. 

“Maybe  you  were  a  little  excited  to  see  a  person 
in  danger,”  she  said.  “It  might  have  got  you  mixed 
up  or  something.  When  things  happen  so  quickly, 
it’s  hard  to  remember  exactly  what  did  happen. 
You  may  not  know  it,  but  you  saved  my  life,  Mr 
Bromley.” 

He  laughed.  “I  didn’t;  but  if  you  insist  on  think¬ 
ing  so,  I  suppose  there’s  no  harm.” 

This  seemed  to  content  her;  she  nodded  her  head, 
smiled  sunnily,  then  became  grave  again.  “And  to 
think  you’d  risk  your  own  life  to  save — even  mine!” 
she  murmured. 

“That’s  merely  absurd.  Miss  Cromwell.  By  not 
the  remotest  possibility  could  it  be  conceived  that  I 
placed  myself  in  any  jeopardy  whatever.” 

“Well” - she  returned,  indefinitely,  but  seemed 

to  reserve  the  right  to  maintain  her  own  conviction 
in  the  matter.  “I  think  ‘jeopardy’  is  a  beautiful 
word,  Mr.  Bromley,”  she  added,  after  a  moment’s 
silence.  “I  mean,  whether  you  admit  you  were  in 
jeopardy  or  not,  it’s  a  word  I  think  ought  to  be  used 
oftener  because  it’s  got  such  a  distinguished  kind  of 


HER  HAPPIEST  HOUR 


147 


sound.”  She  repeated  it  softly,  to  herself.  “Jeo¬ 
pardy.”  Then,  in  a  somewhat  louder  voice,  but  as 
if  merely  offering  a  sample  sentence  in  which  this 
excellent  word  appeared  to  literary  advantage,  she 
murmured:  “He  placed  his  life  in  jeopardy — for  me.” 

“I  didn’t!”  her  companion  said,  sharply.  “The 
word  is  extremely  inappropriate  in  any  such  con¬ 
nection.” 

“I  just  used  it  to  see  how  it  would  sound,”  Cornelia 
explained.  “I  mean,  whether  you  did  get  in  jeopardy 
or  anything,  or  not,  on  my  account,  Mr.  Bromley,  I 
was  just  seeing  how  it  would  sound  if  I  said  it.  I 
mean,  like  this.”  And  she  began  to  repeat,  “He 
placed  his  life  in  jeopardy - ” 

'‘Please  oblige  me,^’  Mr.  Bromley  interrupted. 
“Don’t  say  it  again.” 

His  tone  was  brusque,  and  she  looked  up  inquir¬ 
ingly  to  find  him  frowning  with  annoyance.  She 
decided  to  change  the  subject. 

“Do  you  care  much  for  Christmas,  Mr.  Bromley?” 
she  asked,  in  the  key  of  polite  small  talk.  “It  strikes 
me  as  terribly  tiresome,  myself.  I’m  positively  look¬ 
ing  forward  to  the  next  school  term.” 

“Are  you?” 

■‘Yes — and  oh!  there  was  something  I  thought  of 


148 


WOMEN 


the  other  day  I  wanted  to  ask  you.  Are  you  a 
Republican  or  a  Democrat,  Mr.  Bromley?” 

“Neither.” 

“That’s  so  much  more  distinguished,”  Cornelia 
said.  “I  mean  it  seems  so  much  more  distinguished 
not  to  be  in  politics.  Do  you  believe  in  woman 
suffrage?” 

“No.” 

“Neither  do  I,”  she  said,  and  made  a  serious 
decision  instantly.  “I’m  never  going  to  vote, 
myself.  The  more  I  think  about  books  and  life, 
Mr.  Bromley,  the  less  I  care  about — about” — she 
hesitated,  having  begun  the  sentence  without  fore¬ 
seeing  its  conclusion — “well,  about  things  in  general 
and  everything,”  she  finally  added. 

The  gentleman  beside  her  looked  puzzled;  but 
Cornelia  was  unaware  of  the  sweeping  vagueness  of 
her  remark.  She  was  not  in  a  condition  to  take  note 
of  such  details,  her  consciousness  being  too  preoc¬ 
cupied  with  the  fact  that  she  was  walking  with  him 
who  dwelt  upon  the  summit  of  her  mountain — 
walking  with  him  and  maintaining  a  conversation 
with  him  upon  an  intellectual  footing,  so  to  speak. 
And  as  she  felt  that  a  special  elegance  was  demanded 
by  the  occasion,  she  made  her  voice  a  little  artificial 


HER  HAPPIEST  HOUR  149 

and  obliterated  our  alphabet’s  least  fashionable  con¬ 
sonant  from  her  enunciation  entirely. 

She  waved  a  pretty  little  ungloved  hand  in  a  ges¬ 
ture  of  airy  languor.  “Most  things  seem  such  a 
baw,  don’t  you  think.'^  ”  she  said. 

“Bore?”  he  inquired,  correctly  interpreting  her 
effort.  “They  certainly  shouldn’t  seem  so  to  you, 
at  your  age.” 

“My  age?’*  she  echoed,  and  gave  forth  an  affected 
little  scream.  “Don’t  talk  to  me  about  my  age! 
Why,  half  the  time  I  feel  I’m  at  least  a  hundred.” 

Her  companion’s  reception  of  the  information 
was  somewhat  dry.  “Not  much  more,  I  trust,”  he 
said,  and  looked  hopefully  forward  into  the  distance 
as  if  to  some  goal  or  terminus  of  this  excursion. 

But  Cornelia’s  exaltation  was  too  high  for  her  to 
be  aware  of  any  slight  appearances  that  might  lower 
it.  “Indeed  I  do,”  she  insisted.  “Why,  when  I 
look  at  the  classes  of  younger  girls  that  have  come 
into  the  school  in  the  years  and  years  I’ve  been  there, 
I  feel  a  thousand.  I  do,  positively,  I  do  assure  you.” 

From  beneath  a  plaintive  brow,  Mr.  Bromley’s  eyes 
continued  to  search  the  distance  hopefully,  and  he 
made  no  response. 

Then,  as  he  still  remained  silent,  Cornelia  did 


150 


WOMEN 


what  most  people  do  when  their  ebulliences  are 
received  without  encouraging  comment — she  eased 
herself  by  a  series  of  repetitions,  enthusiastic  at 
first,  but  tapering  in  emphasis  until  she  had  settled 
down  again  into  the  casual.  “It’s  the  positive  fact; 
these  younger  girls  do  make  me  feel  a  thousand — 
positively,  I  do  assure  you!  You  mayn’t  believe 
it,  but  it’s  the  mere  simple  truth,  I  do  assure  you. 

It  is,  I  do - ”  She  checked  herself,  being  about  to 

say  “I  do  assure  you”  again;  and  although  her  own 
ability  to  use  the  phrase  charmed  her,  she  feared  that 
too  much  of  it  might  appear  to  indicate  a  lack  of 
versatility.  She  coughed  delicately,  as  a  proper 
bit  of  punctuation  for  the  unfinished  sentence; — 
then,  as  further  punctuation,  uttered  sounds  resem¬ 
bling  a  courteous  kind  of  laughter,  to  signify  amuse¬ 
ment  caused  by  her  own  remarks,  and  thus  gradually 
reached  a  point  where  she  could  regard  the  episode 
as  closed. 

Having  successfully  passed  this  rather  diflicult 
point,  she  looked  up  at  him  with  the  air  of  a  person 
suddenly  overtaken  by  a  belated  thought  that  should 
have  arrived  earlier.  “Oh,  by  the  by,”  she  said,  “I 
suppose  I  ought  to’ve  asked  this  sooner,  but  I  expect 


HER  HAPPIEST  HOUR  151 

I  forgot  it  because  I  was  a  little  excited  about  your 
risking  your  li - ” 

“I  did  nothing  of  the  kind,”  he  interrupted, 
promptly  and  sharply.  “What  is  it  you  wanted  to 
ask  me?” 

“Well,  it  was  this,  Mr.  Bromley.  We  got  to  walk¬ 
ing  along  together  after  you  saved — after  I  nearly 
got  run  over — and  I  didn’t  even  ask  you  where  you’re 
going.” 

“I’m  on  my  way  to  lunch  at  the  Blue  Tea  Room.” 

“You — you  are?^^  Cornelia  said  in  a  strange  tone. 
An  impulse,  rash  and  sudden,  had  affected  her  throat. 

She  had  never  before  been  quite  alone  with  the 
solitary  inhabitant  of  her  mountain’s  summit;  she 
had  never  before  walked  with  him.  Her  walking 
was  upon  air,  moreover.  She  was  self-conscious, 
yet  had  no  consciousness  of  walking — the  rather,  she 
floated  in  the  crystal  air  of  great  altitudes;  and, 
rapt  in  the  transcendent  presence  beside  her,  she  be¬ 
came  intoxicated  by  the  experience. 

Cornelia  had  fallen  in  love  with  Mr.  Bromley 
sublimely,  instantly,  upon  that  day  when  he  told 
her  to  think  about  books  and  life; — there  seemed  to 
be  no  other  reason,  though  her  own  explanation 


m 


WOMEN 


defined  him  as  the  only  man  who  had  ever  spoken 
to  her  inner  self — and  now  that  she  found  herself 
alone  with  him  for  the  first  time,  she  could  not  bear 
for  that  time  to  be  brief.  She  was  already  expected 
at  home  for  lunch,  and  she  knew  that  her  unexplained 
absence  might  cause  more  than  mere  comment  in 
her  domestic  circle.  Her  impulse  was,  therefore, 
something  more  than  indiscreet,  taking  all  circum^ 
stances  and  the  strictness  of  her  mother  into  account. 
But  the  exciting  moment  had  prevailed  with  Cornelia 
before  she  took  anything  into  account. 

“To  lunch  at  the  Blue  Tea  Room?”  she  cried. 
“Why,  Mr.  Bromley,  so  am  I!  That’s  just  where  I 
was  going.  Isn’t  that  queer?  Why,  we  can  have 
lunch  together.” 

The  hopeful  gleam  passed  out  of  Mr.  Bromley’s 
expression,  though  perhaps  the  bright  eyes  looking 
up  at  him  so  eagerly  were  able  to  interpret  his  gloom 
as  merely  the  thoughtfulness  habitual  to  a  scholar. 
His  was  not  a  practical  mind;  he  had  no  thought 
that  Cornelia’s  lunching  with  him  might  have  any 
result  save  to  spoil  the  cozy  hour  he  had  planned 
for  himself  with  his  book  as  a  table  companion.  To 
him  she  was  one  of  the  hundred  pupils  at  the  school — 
a  little  girl  who  had  lately  developed  odd  manner- 


HEB  HAPPIEST  HOUR 


153 


isms  and  airy  aflFectations,  for  no  reason  except  that 
many  little  girls  seemed  to  pass  through  such  phases — 
and  so  far  as  his  interest  in  her  as  an  individual 
human  being  was  concerned,  Cornelia  might  as  well 
have  been  eight  years  old  as  sixteen.  He  saw  noth¬ 
ing,  except  that  he  would  have  to  listen  to  her  in¬ 
stead  of  reading  his  book,  for,  since  she  meant  to 
lunch  at  the  Blue  Tea  Room,  she  would  probably 
talk  to  him  anyhow,  whether  they  sat  at  the  same 
table  or  not. 

“Ah — if  such  be  the  case,  very  well,”  he  said, 
without  enthusiasm.  “Very  well,  Miss  Cromwell.” 
Then  he  added  hastily,  “I  mean  to  say” — and  paused 
hoping  to  think  of  something  that  might  avoid  the 
proposed  tete-a-tete;  but  he  failed.  “I  mean  to  say 
— ah — if  you  wish.  Miss  Cromwell.” 

“Do  I!”  she  exclaimed,  breathlessly;  but  the  radi¬ 
ant  face  she  showed  him  only  gave  him  the  idea  that 
she  was  probably  excited  by  the  prospect  of  waffles. 

Yet,  when  waffles — the  Blue  Tea  Room’s  specialty 
- — were  placed,  as  a  second  course,  upon  the  small 
blue-and-white  painted  table  between  her  and  Mr. 
Bromley,  Cornelia  showed  no  avidity  for  them. 
She  had  resumed  her  elegant  manner,  and  but  toyed 
with  the  food.  Her  elegance,  indeed,  was  almost 


154 


WOMEN 


oppressive  to  her  companion; — she  told  the  blue- 
aproned  waitress,  whose  cultivation  was  betokened 
by  horn-rimmed  spectacles,  that  forgetting  to  bring 
butter  was  a  “dreadful  baw.”  She  said  “baw” 
as  frequently  as  she  could,  in  fact;  and  she  appeared 
to  view  the  people  at  the  other  tables  through  a 
frigid  though  invisible  lorgnette. 

Her  disdain  of  them  as  plebeians,  beings  unknown 
and  not  to  be  known,  was  visible  in  her  expression; — 
so  much  so  that  it  made  Mr.  Bromley  uncomfortable; 
and  here  was  a  small  miracle  in  its  way;  for  in  reality 
she  did  not  see  the  other  people  in  the  room  at  all  dis¬ 
tinctly.  They  were  only  blurred  planes  of  far-r.way 
colour  to  her;  she  was  but  dimly  aware  of  their  out¬ 
lines,  and  failed  to  recognize  two  of  them  whom  she 
knew  very  well. 

For  Cornelia  all  life  and  light  centred  upon 
the  little  painted  table  at  which  she  sat  with 
Mj.  Bromley.  The  world  to  her  was  like  a  shadowy 
room  at  sunset,  when  through  a  window  a  last  shaft 
from  the  rosy  sun  illumines  one  spot  alone,  making 
it  glorious,  and  all  else  dim  and  formless.  Mr. 
Bromley  and  she  sat  together  in  this  golden  glow, 
an  aura  that  shimmered  out  to  nothing  all  round 
about  them,  so  that  there  was  no  definite  background; 


HER  HAPPIEST  HOUR  155 

and  for  anything  more  than  two  or  three  feet  away 
she  was  astigmatic. 

Elation  sweet  as  music  possessed  her.  She  was 
not  only  lunching  at  a  restaurant  with  a  Distin¬ 
guished  Man,  quite  as  if  she  were  a  prima  donna  in 
Paris,  but  that  Distinguished  Man  was  Mr.  Bromley 
— Mr.  Bromley  himself,  pale  with  studious  wisdom, 
yet  manly,  and  incomparably  more  exciting  than 
the  symbol  of  him  drawn  with  five  lines  and  a  dot 
upon  her  mountain.  She  had  sometimes  trembled 
when  she  looked  at  that  emaciated  symbol:  What 
wonder  could  there  be  that  she  became  a  little  too 
elegant,  that  her  laughter  rang  a  little  too  loudly,  or 
that  she  showed  herself  disdainful  of  lowly  presences 
in  a  dim  background,  now,  when  she  sat  facing  her 
Ideal  made  actual  in  all  his  beauty? 

Beauty  it  was,  in  good  faith,  to  Cornelia,  and,  so 
far  as  she  was  concerned,  Praxiteles,  experimenting  to 
improve  Mr.  Bromley,  could  only  have  marred  him. 
There  was  gray  in  his  hair,  but  it  was  not  emphasized, 
since  he  was  an  ashen  blond;  and  for  Cornelia — 
unaware  of  his  actual  years  and  content  to  remain 
so — he  had  no  age,  he  had  only  perfection.  So 
beautiful  he  was  in  the  rosy  light  with  which  she 
encircled  him. 


156 


WOMEN 


“Aren’t  you  going  to  eat  your  waffles,  now  you’ve 
got  ’em?”  he  asked,  a  little  querulously. 

“Waffles?”  she  said,  as  if  she  knew  of  none  and 
the  word  were  strange  to  her.  “Waffles?” 

“Aren’t  you  going  to  eat  them?  I  supposed  that 
was  why  you  came  here.” 

She  looked  down  at  her  plate,  appeared  surprised 
to  find  it  occupied,  and  uttered  a  courtesy  laughter 
with  such  grace  it  seemed  almost  that  she  sang  the 
diatonic  scale.  This  effect  was  so  pronounced,  in¬ 
deed,  that  several  people  at  other  tables  turned — 
again — to  look  at  her,  and  Mr.  Bromley  reddened. 
“Oh,  yes,”  she  said.  “You  mean  these  waffles. 
Yes,  indeed !  ”  And  here  she  repeated  her  too  musical 
laughter,  accompanying  it  with  several  excited 
gestures  of  amazement  as  she  exclaimed,  Imagine 
my  not  noticing  them  when  they’re  absolutely  my 
favourite  food!  Absolutely  they  are,  my  dear  man, 
I  do  assure  you!” 

Then,  having  touched  a  waffle  with  her  fork,  she 
set  the  fork  down,  placed  her  elbows  on  the  table, 
rested  her  chin  in  her  hands  and  gazed  upon  her 
companion  lustrously.  “Mr.  Bromley,”  she  said, 
“how  did  your  father  and  mother  happen  to  choose 
‘Gregory’  for  your  first  name?  Were  you  named 


HER  HAPPIEST  HOUR  157 

for  somebody  else,  or  did  they  just  have  kind  of  an 
inspiration  to  call  you  Gregory.” 

‘T  was  named  for  an  uncle,”  he  replied  briefly. 

“How  beautiful!”  she  murmured. 

“What?” 

“It’s  a  beautiful  name,”  she  said,  and,  not  chang¬ 
ing  her  attitude,  continued  to  gaze  upon  him. 

“Why  in  the  world  don’t  you  eat  your  food?” 
he  asked,  impatiently.  He  had  become  but  too  well 
aware  that  Cornelia  was  attracting  a  covertly  derisive 
attention;  and  he  began  to  think  her  a  bothersomely 
eccentric  child.  Following  her  noticeable  elegance 
and  her  diatonic  laughter,  her  dreamy  attitude  in  the 
presence  of  untouched  waffles  was  conspicuous,  and 
he  was  annoyed  in  particular  by  the  interest  with 
which  two  occupants  of  a  table  against  the  opposite 
wall  were  regarding  him  and  Cornelia. 

One  of  these  interested  persons  was  another  of  his 
pupils,  a  girl  of  Cornelia’s  age.  He  could  not  fail  to 
note  how  frequently  she  glanced  at  him,  and  after 
each  glance  whispered  seriously  with  her  mother 
across  their  table;  then  both  would  stare  surrepti¬ 
tiously  at  him  and  his  rapt  vis-a-vis.  There  was 
something  like  a  disapproving  surveillance — even 
something  inimical — in  their  continuing  observation. 


158  WOMEN 

he  thought;  nor  was  he  remote  from  the  truth  in  this 
impression. 

Cornelia’s  schoolmate  was  enjoying  herself,  ex¬ 
cited  by  what  she  had  easily  prevailed  upon  a  nervous 
mother  to  see  as  a  significant  contretemps.  More¬ 
over,  the  daughter  had  just  imparted  to  the  mother 
a  secret  known  to  half  the  school,  but  not  to  Mrs. 
Cromwell. 

“Crazy  about  him!”  the  schoolmate  whispered. 
“Absolutely!  She  picked  up  the  stub  of  his  pencil 
and  kept  it,  and  a  piece  of  an  old  broken  pipe.  We 
teased  her,  and  she  got  red  and  ran  away.  She 
won’t  speak  to  us  for  days  if  we  say  anything  about 
him  she  doesn’t  like.  Everybody  knows  she’s  simply 
frantic.  Did  you  ever  see  such  airs  as  she’s  been 
putting  on,  and  did  you  hear  her  calling  him  her 
‘dear  man’  and  talking  about  ‘I  do  assure  you’? 
And  then  looking  at  him  like  that — the  poor  smack!” 

“I  never  in  all  my  life  saw  anything  like  it!”  the 
mother  returned,  her  brow  dark  and  her  eyes  wide 
“She  looked  straight  at  us  and  never  made  the  slight¬ 
est  sign  when  we  bowed  to  her!  The  idea  of  as  care¬ 
ful  a  woman  as  Mrs.  Cromwell  allowing  her  daughter 
to  get  into  such  a  state,  in  the  first  place,  is  very 
shocking  to  me;  and  in  the  second,  to  permit  her  to 


HER  HAPPIEST  HOUR 


159 


come  here,  at  her  age,  and  lunch  in  public  with  a 
man  she’s  in  such  a  state  about — a  man  supposed 
to  be  her  teacher  and  old  enough  to  be  almost  her 
grandfather — simply  can’t  imagine  what  she  means 
by  it.” 

The  schoolmate  giggled.  “Cornelia’s  mother? 
Don’t  you  believe  it.  Mrs.  Cromwell  doesn’t  know 
a  thing  about  it.” 

“Then  she  ought  to  know,  and  immediately.  If 
one  of  my  daughters  behaved  like  that,  I  should 
certainly  be  thankful  to  any  one  who  informed  me 
of  it.  I  certainly - ” 

“iooA;/”  the  schoolmate  whispered,  profoundly 
stirred.  “Look  at  her  nowP^ 

Cornelia  was  worth  the  look  thus  advised.  Under 
repeated  pressure  to  dispose  of  her  waffles,  she  had 
made  some  progress  with  them,  but  now  with  the 
plate  removed  and  a  cooling  sherbet  substituted 
before  her,  she  had  resumed  her  rapt  posture,  her 
elbows  upon  the  table,  her  chin  upon  her  hands,  her 
wistful  bright  eyes  fixed  upon  the  face  of  the  un¬ 
comfortable  gentleman  opposite  her. 

“Was  your  uncle  a  very  distinguished  man, 
Mr.  Bromley?”  she  asked.  “I  mean  the  one  they 
named  you  ‘Gregory’  after.” 


160 


WOMEN 


“Not  in  any  way,”  he  said.  He  had  finished  his 
own  lunch,  and  moved  back  slightly  but  significantly 
in  his  chair.  “Hadn’t  you  better  eat  your  sherbet?  ” 
he  suggested.  “I  believe  it’s  about  time  for  me  to 
go.” 

She  sighed,  lowered  her  eyes,  and  obediently  ate 
the  sherbet;  but  ate  it  so  slowly  that  by  the  time  she 
had  finished  it  they  were  alone  in  the  room  except 
for  a  waitress,  who  made  her  own  lingering  conspicu¬ 
ous. 

“Now,  then,”  Mr.  Bromley  said,  briskly,  “if  you’ve 
quite  concluded  your - ” 

“But  I  haven’t  had  any  coffee,”  Cornelia  inter¬ 
rupted.  “I  always  have  a  small  cup  after  lunch.” 

“Does  your  mother - ” 

“Mamma?”  she  said,  appearing  greatly  surprised. 
“Oh,  dear,  yes.  She  takes  it  herself.” 

He  resigned  himself,  and  the  waitress  brought  the 
little  cup;  but  as  Cornelia  conveyed  the  contents  to 
her  lips  entirely  by  means  of  the  accompanying  tiny 
spoon,  and  her  care  not  to  be  injured  by  hot  liquid 
was  extreme,  he  thought  that  never  in  his  life  had 
he  seen  any  person  drink  an  after-dinner  cup  of  coffee 
so  slowly.  And,  all  the  while,  Cornelia,  silent, 
seemed  to  be  dreamily  yet  completely  engrossed  with 


HER  HAPPIEST  HOUR 


161 


this  long  process  of  consumption;  her  lowered  eyes 
were  always  upon  the  tiny  spoon.  The  impatient 
Mr.  Bromley  sat  and  sat,  and  finally  lost  his  manners 
so  far  as  to  begin  a  nervous  tapping  upon  the  rugless 
floor  with  the  sole  of  his  right  shoe. 

This  was  the  oddest  child  in  the  world,  he  thought. 
A  little  while  ago  she  had  looked  at  him  with  so  intent 
a  curious  dreaminess  that  she  had  annoyed  him; 
now  she  seemed  to  have  forgotten  him  in  her  epicu¬ 
rean  absorption  in  half  a  gill  of  coffee.  And  so  he 
frowned,  and  shifted  in  his  chair  and  tapped  the 
floor  with  his  shoe,  and  did  not  know  that  the  tapping 
had  grown  rhythmical.  For,  though  her  eyes  were 
lowered  and  her  lips  were  silent,  Cornelia  was  keeping 
time  to  it  with  a  song.  Each  tap  of  Mr,  Bromley’s 
foot  was  a  syllable  of  the  song. 

The  hours  I  spent  with  thee,  dear  heart, 

Are  as  a  string  of  pearls  to  me; 

I  count  them  over,  every  one  apart - 

.  .  .  But  at  last  her  pearls  were  gone;  the  little 
cup  was  empty.  “Now,” he  said,  “if  you’ve  finished. 

Miss  Cromwell - ”  And  he  pushed  back  his  chair 

decisively,  rising  as  he  did  so. 

Still  she  sat  and  did  not  look  up,  but  with  her  eyes 


162 


WOMEN 


upon  the  empty  cup,  she  asked:  ‘‘W^ould  you  let  this 
be  my  lunch,  Mr.  Bromley?  Would  you  mind  if  I 
charged  it  to  Papa?” 

“Nonsense,”  he  said.  He  had  already  paid  the 
waitress.  “Ah — if  you  intend  remaining  here - ” 

“No,  I’m  coming,”  she  said,  meekly.  “I  just - ” 

She  rose,  and  as  she  did  she  looked  up  at  him  radi¬ 
antly,  facing  him.  “You — you’ve  been  ever  so  nice 
to  me,  Mr.  Bromley.” 

Her  cheeks  were  glowing,  her  lifted  happy  eyes 
were  all  too  worshipfully  eloquent;  and  for  a  moment, 
as  the  two  stood  there,  Mr.  Bromley  felt  a  strange 
little  embarrassment,  this  time  not  an  annoyed 
embarrassment.  Who  can  know  what  is  in  a  young 
girl’s  heart?  Suddenly,  to  his  own  surprise,  he  felt  a 
slight, inexplicable  emotion; — something  in  Cornelia’s 
look  pleased  him  and  even  touched  him.  Just  for  the 
five  or  six  seconds  that  he  knew  this  feeling,  some¬ 
thing  mysterious,  something  charming,  seemed  about 
to  happen. 

“No,”  he  said.  “It’s  you  who  were  nice  to  me. 
I — ^I’ve  enjoyed  it — truly.” 

She  drew  a  deep  breath.  “Have  you  really? 
she  cried.  And  with  that,  she  turned  and  ran  to  the 
door,  all  sixteen.  But,  with  the  door  open,  she  called 


HER  HAPPIEST  HOUR 


163 


back  to  him  over  her  shoulder,  “I’m  glad  it’s  Friday, 
Mr.  Bromley.” 

“Why?” 

“Because  it’s  only  till  Monday  when  school 
begins!” 


XIII 


HEARTBREAK 

SHE  ran  out  of  the  door  and  to  the  street, 
where  she  turned  northward,  away  from 
home,  with  her  cheeks  afire  and  her  heart 
still  singing;  but  what  it  sang  now  was,  “Monday! 
Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday,  Thursday,  Friday — 
Monday  again!”  All  through  the  year  she  would 
see  him  on  every  one  of  those  days.  Cornelia  was 
happy. 

She  was  altogether  happy;  and  she  had  just  spent 
the  happiest  hour  of  her  life.  Other  happy  hours 
she  might  know,  and  many  different  kinds  of  happi¬ 
ness,  but  never  again  an  hour  of  such  untouched 
happiness  as  this.  Happiness  unshadowed  cannot 
come  often  after  childhood,  and  sixteen  is  one  of 
the  years  that  close  childhood. 

She  was  too  happy  to  be  with  any  one  except 
herself;  she  could  not  talk  to  any  one  except  herself; 
and  so  her  feet  bore  her  lightly  to  the  open  country 

outside  the  suburban  town,  and  here,  pleased  with 

164 


HEARTBREAK 


165 


the  bracing  winter  wind  upon  her  face,  she  walked 
and  walked — and  her  walking  was  more  like  dancing. 
She  did  not  come  home  until  the  twilight  of  the  short 
day  had  begun  to  verge  into  dusk;  and,  when  she 
entered  the  house  she  went  quickly  up  to  her  own 
room  without  seeing  anybody  on  the  way.  In  her 
heart  she  was  singing  gaily,  “Monday!  Monday, 
Tuesday,  Wednesday - ’’ 

But  as  she  pressed  the  light  on  at  a  lamp  upon  her 
dressing-table,  something  disquieted  her.  She  flew 
to  her  open  desk,  and,  breathless,  clasped  both  hands 
about  her  throat,  for  before  her  was  her  sacred  moun¬ 
tain,  but  not  as  she  had  left  it.  The  little  papers 
had  blown  about  the  room.  Someone  had  closed  the 
window,  and  gathered  the  drawings  together.  Some¬ 
one  had  left  a  paperweight  upon  them.  Someone 
had  seen  the  mountain. 

The  door  opened  behind  her,  as  Cornelia  stood 
staring  at  this  violation,  and  she  turned  to  face  her 
mother. 

Mrs.  Cromwell  closed  the  door,  but  she  did  not  sit 
down  or  even  advance  farther  into  the  room.  “Cor¬ 
nelia,  where  have  you  been  all  day?” 

“What?  Nowhere  in  particular.” 

“Where  did  you  lunch?” 


166 


WOMEN 


“What?  Nowhere  in  particular.” 

“Cornelia!” 

“Yes,  Mamma.”  Cornelia  had  resumed  her  ar¬ 
mour;  her  look  was  moody  and  her  tone  fatigued. 

“Cornelia,  I  am  asking  you  where  you  lunched.” 

“I  said,  ‘Nowhere  in  particular,’  Mamma.” 

“I  know  you  did.”  And  upon  this  Mrs.  Crom¬ 
well’s  voice  trembled  a  little.  “I  wish  you  to  tell 
me  the  truth,  Cornelia.” 

Cornelia  stood  before  her,  apparently  imperturba¬ 
ble,  with  passive  eyes  evasive;  and  Mrs.  Cromwell, 
not  knowing  that  her  daughter’s  knees  were  trem¬ 
bling,  began  to  speak  with  the  severity  she  felt. 

“Cornelia,  your  father  and  I  have  been  talking 
in  the  library,  and  we’ve  made  up  our  minds  this 
sort  of  thing  must  come  to  a  stop.” 

“What  sort  of  thing?” 

“This  rudeness  of  yours,  this  moodiness  and 
secretiveness.” 

“I’m  not  secretive.” 

“You  are.  You’re  an  entirely  changed  girl.  Last 
year  you’d  no  more  have  done  what  you’re  doing 
now  than  you’d  have  flown  1  ” 

“What  am  I  doing  now?” 

“You’re  standing  there  trying  to  deceive  me,” 


HEARTBREAK 


167 


Mrs.  Cromwell  answered  sharply.  “But  I’m  not 
deceived  any  longer,  Cornelia;  I’ve  learned  the 
truth.  We  knew  that  a  change  had  come  over  you, 
and  you  were  moody  and  indifferent  toward  your 
family,  but  we  did  at  least  suppose  your  mind  was 

on  your  books.  But  to-day - ” 

“To-day!”  Cornelia  cried  out  suddenly,  her  look 
of  moodiness  all  gone.  She  pointed  to  her  desk. 
“Were  you  in  here  to-day  after  I  went  out?  Did 


“You  left  your  door  open  and  your  window,  and 
those  sheets  of  paper  were  blowing  clear  out  into  the 
hall.  Naturally,  I - ” 

“Mamma!”  Cornelia’s  voice  was  loud  now,  and 
her  finger  trembled  violently  as  she  pointed  to  the 
mountain.  “Mamma,  did  you — did  you ” 

Mrs.  Cromwell  laughed  impatiently.  “Naturally, 
as  I  picked  them  up  I  couldn’t  very  well  help  se^  ing 
what  they  were  and  drawing  certain  conclusions.” 

“You  Cornelia  cried,  fiercely.  “Mamma, 

you  dared! 

“Cornelia,  you  will  please  not  speak  to  me  in 
that  tone.  I’m  very  glad  it  happened  because, 
though  of  course  I  shouldn’t  take  those  little  drawings 
of  yours  seriously,  and  they’re  of  no  significance 


168 


WOMEN 


worth  mentioning,  there  was  one  of  them  that  did 
shed  a  light  on  something  I  heard  later  in  the  after¬ 
noon.” 

“What?  What  did  you  hear?” 

Mrs.  Crpmwell  came  a  step  nearer  her,  gravely. 
“Cornelia,  you  needn’t  have  tried  to  deceive  me 
about  where  you  went  when  you  slipped  out  of  the 
house  before  lunch  and  caused  me  so  much  anxiety. 
I  telephoned  and  telephoned - ” 

Cornelia  interrupted;  her  shaking  finger  still 
pointed  to  the  desk:  “I  don’t  care  to  hear  this. 
What  I  want  to  know  is  how  you  dared — ^how  you 
dared  to - ” 

“Cornelia,  you  must  not  ask  your  mother  how 
she  ‘dares’  to  do  anything.  We  know  where  you 
lunched,  and  you  might  have  guessed  that  you 
couldn’t  do  such  a  thing  without  our  hearing  of  it. 
A  lady  who  saw  you  came  straight  here  to  know  if  it 
was  by  my  consent,  and  I’m  very  grateful  to  her  for 
it.  In  conjunction  with  the  drawing  I’d  just  seen, 
which  surprised  me  greatly,  to  say  the  least,  what 
this  lady  told  me  was  a  shock  to  me,  as  it  is  to  your 
father,  too,  Cornelia.  To  think  that  you’d  deceive 
us  like  this — to  say  nothing  of  the  indiscretion  of  a 
schoolmaster  who  is  supposed  to  be  in  charge  of - ” 


HEARTBREAK  169 

“Mr.  Bromley?”  Cornelia  cried.  “Do  you  mean 
Mr.  Bromley?” 

“I  certainly  do.  I  think  his  conduct - ” 

“I  asked  him,”  Cornelia  interrupted  fiercely. 
“I  saw  him  from  the  window  and  I  ran  down  and 
walked  ahead  of  him,  and  almost  got  run  over  by  a 
taxicab  on  purpose,  and  he  saved  me,  and  I  asked  him 
to  let  me  have  lunch  with  him  and  told  him  I  was 

going  there  anyway.  Mamma,  don’t  you  dare - ” 

Her  voice  broke;  she  gulped  and  choked;  her  trem¬ 
bling  was  but  too  visible  now.  “Mamma,  if  you 
ever  dare  say  anything  against  Mr.  Bromley - ” 

“I  agree  that  we  may  quite  as  well  leave  him  out 
of  it,”  her  mother  said,  sharply.  “Your  own  excite¬ 
ment  is  all  the  evidence  I  need  that  your  father  and 
I  have  been  wise  in  the  decision  we’ve  just  come 
to.” 

Something  ominous  in  this  arrested  Cornelia’s 
anger;  and  she  stared  at  her  mother  incredulously. 
“‘Decision’?”  she  repeated,  slowly.  “What  ‘de¬ 
cision’?” 

“We’re  going  to  put  you  into  Miss  Remy’s  school 
on  the  Hudson,”  Mrs.  Cromwell  said.  “Your 
father’s  already  engaged  a  drawing-room  for  us  on 
the  afternoon  train  to-morrow.  I’m  going  with 


170  WOMEN 

you,  and  you’ll  begin  the  new  term  there  on  Mon¬ 
day.” 

Cornelia  still  stared.  “No - ”  she  said.  “No, 

Mamma,  no - ” 

Mrs.  Cromwell  was  touched,  seeing  the  terror  that 
gathered  in  her  child’s  eyes.  “You’ll  love  it  there 
after  a  little  while,  dear.  You  may  think  it’s  pleas¬ 
ant  to  stay  here,  but  after  you’ve  been  there  a  week 
or  so,  it’s  such  a  lovely  place  that  you - ” 

But  Cornelia  threw  herself  down  passionately 
at  her  mother’s  feet.  “No!  No!  iVo/”  she  sob¬ 
bed,  over  and  over  again;  and  in  this  half-articulate 
anguish,  Mrs.  Cromwell  read  and  understood  Cor¬ 
nelia’s  secret  indeed.  She  was  compassionate,  yet 
all  the  more  confirmed  in  her  belief  that  the  decision 
just  made  with  her  husband  was  a  wise  one. 

Cornelia  could  bring  no  eloquence  to  alter  her  fate. 
“No!  No!  iVo.'”  was  only  her  protest  against 
what  she  understood  was  inevitable,  though,  as  she 
wept  brokenly  upon  her  pillow  that  night,  she  thought 
of  one  resource  that  would  avoid  the  inevitable,  so 
desperate  she  was.  But  she  decided  to  live,  and 
found  living  hardest  when  she  was  on  her  way  to  the 
train  next  day,  and  the  route  chosen  by  her  father’s 
chauffeur  cruelly  passed  the  Blue  Tea  Room. 


HEARTBREAK 


171 


On  the  train,  thinking  of  the  flying  miles  that  so 
bitterly  lengthened  between  her  and  that  sacred 
little  blue-painted  room,  she  came  to  the  end  of  the 
song  her  heart  had  chanted  there  in  time  to  a  tapping 
foot; — it  was  the  refrain  of  the  car  wheels  upon  the 
humming  rails  all  that  aching  way: 

I  tell  each  bead  unto  the  end  and  there 
A  cross  is  hung. 


XIV 

MRS.  dodge’s  next-door  NEIGHBOUR 


FIVE  o’clock  upon  a  February  afternoon 
/■■%  the  commodious  rooms  on  the  lower  floor 
^  of  Mrs.  Cromwell’s  big  house  resounded 
with  all  the  noise  that  a  hundred  women  unaided 
by  flrearms  could  make.  A  hundred  men,  gathered 
in  a  similar  social  manner,  if  that  were  possible, 
might  either  be  quiet  or  produce  a  few  uproariously 
bellowing  groups,  a  matter  depending  upon  the 
presence  or  absence  of  noisy  individuals;  but  a  hun¬ 
dred  habitually  soft- voiced  women,  brought  together 
for  a  brief  enjoyment  of  one  another’s  society  and 
a  trifling  incidental  repast,  must  almost  inevitably 
abandon  themselves  to  that  vocal  rioting  ultimately 
so  helpful  to  the  incomes  of  the  “nerve  specialists.” 

The  strain,  of  course,  is  not  put  upon  the  nerves 
by  the  overpitched  voices  alone.  At  times  during 
Mrs.  Cromwell’s  “tea”  the  face  of  almost  every 
woman  in  the  house  was  distressed  by  the  expression 
of  caressive  animation  maintained  upon  it.  The 

172 


MRS.  DODGE’S  NEIGHBOUR 


173 


most  conscientious  of  the  guests  held  this  expression 
upon  their  faces  from  the  moment  they  entered  the 
house  until  they  left  it;  they  went  about  from  room 
to  room,  from  group  to  group,  shouting  indomitably; 
and,  without  an  instant’s  relaxation,  kept  a  sweet 
archness  frozen  upon  their  faces,  no  matter  how  those 
valiant  faces  ached. 

Men  may  not  flatter  themselves  in  believing  it  is 
for  them  that  women  most  ardently  sculpture  their 
expressions.  A  class  of  women  has  traduced  the 
rest:  those  women  who  are  languid  where  there  are 
no  men.  The  women  at  Mrs.  Cromwell’s  ‘Tea,”  with 
not  a  man  in  sight,  so  consistently  moulded  their 
faces  that  the  invitations  might  well  have  read, 
“From  Four  to  Six:  a  Ladies’  Masque.” 

What  gave  most  truly  the  colour  of  a  masquerade 
was  the  unmasking.  This,  of  course,  was  never 
general,  nor  at  any  time  simultaneous,  except  with 
two  or  three;  yet,  here  and  there,  withdrawn  a  little 
to  the  side  of  a  room,  or  near  a  corner,  ladies  might  be 
seen  who  wore  no  expression  at  all,  or  else  looked 
jaded  or  even  frostily  observant  of  the  show.  Some¬ 
times  clubs  of  two  seemed  to  form  temporarily,  the 
members  unmasking  to  each  other,  exhibiting  their 
real  faces  in  confidence,  and  joining  in  criticism  ol 


174  WOMEN 

the  maskers  about  them.  At  such  times,  if  a  third 
lady  approached,  the  two  would  immediately  resume 
their  masks  and  bob  and  beam;  then  they  might  seem 
to  elect  her  to  membership;  whereupon  all  three 
would  drop  their  masks,  shout  gravely,  close  to  one 
another’s  ears,  then  presently  separate,  masking 
again  in  facial  shapings  designed  to  picture  universal 
love  and  jaunty  humour. 

But  among  the  hundred  merrymakers  there  was 
one  of  whom  it  could  not  be  said  that  she  was  masked; 
yet,  strange  to  tell,  neither  could  it  be  said  of  her 
that  she  was  not  masked;  for  either  she  wore  no  mask 
at  all  or  wore  one  always.  Her  face  at  Mrs.  Crom¬ 
well’s  was  precisely  as  it  was  when  seen  anywhere 
else;  though  where  it  seemed  most  appropriately 
surrounded  was  in  church. 

Calm,  pale,  the  chin  uplifted  a  little,  with  the 
slant  of  the  head  always  more  toward  heaven  than 

earth,  this  angelic  face  was  borne  high  by  the  straight 
throat  and  slender  figure  like  the  oriflamme  upon  its 
staff;  and  so  it  passed  through  the  crowd  of  shouting 
women,  seeming  to  move  in  a  spiritual  light  that  fell 
upon  them  and  illuminated  them,  yet  illuminated 
most  the  uplifted  face  that  was  its  source.  Moreover, 
upon  the  lips  the  exquisite  promise  of  a  smile  was 


MRS.  DODGE’S  NEIGHBOUR 


175 


continuously  hinted;  and  the  hint  foreshadowed  how 
fine  the  smile  would  be:  how  gentle,  though  a  little 
martyred  by  life,  and  how  bravely  tolerant. 

The  beholder  waited  for  this  promised  heavenly 
smile,  but  waited  in  vain.  “You  always  think  she’s 
just  going  to  until  you  see  her  often  enough  to  find 
she  never  does,”  a  broad-shouldered  matron  ex¬ 
plained  to  two  of  her  friends  at  Mrs.  Cromwell’s. 
The  three  had  formed  one  of  the  little  clubs  for  a 
temporary  unmasking  and  were  lookers-on  for  the 
moment.  “It’s  an  old  worn-out  kind  of  thing  to 
say,”  the  sturdy  matron  continued; — “but  I  never 
can  resist  applying  it  to  her.  Nobody  can  ever 
possibly  be  so  good  as  Mrs.  Leslie  Braithwaite  looks. 
I’ll  even  risk  saying  that  nobody  can  ever  possibly 
be  so  good  as  she  seems  to  behave!” 

“Oh,  Mrs.  Dodge!”  one  of  the  others  exclaimed. 
“But  isn’t  behaviour  the  final  proof.?  My  husband 
says  conduct  is  the  only  test  of  character.” 

“He  doesn’t  know  what  he’s  talking  about,”  the 
brusque  Mrs.  Dodge  returned.  “When  we  do  any¬ 
thing  noble,  it’s  in  spite  of  our  true  character;  that' s 
what  makes  it  a  noble  thing  to  do.  I’ve  lived  next 
door  to  that  woman  for  five  years,  and,  though  I 
seldom  exchange  more  than  a  word  with  her,  I  can’t 


176 


WOMEN 


help  having  her  in  my  sight  pretty  often.  She  always 
looks  noble  and  she  always  sounds  noble.  Even  when 
she  says,  ‘Isn’t  it  a  lovely  day,*  she  sounds  noble — 
and,  for  my  part,  I’m  sick  and  tired  of  her  nobility!” 

“But  my  husband  says - ” 

“I  don’t  care  what  Mr.  Battle  says,”  Mrs.  Dodge 
interrupted.  “The  woman’s  a  nuisance!” 

“To  me,”  said  the  third  of  the  group,  gravely, 
“that  sounds  almost  like  sacrilege.  I’ve  always 
felt  that  even  though  Mrs.  Leslie  Braithwaite  is  still 
quite  a  young  woman,  she’s  the  focus  of  spiritual 
life  for  this  whole  community.  I  think  the  people 
here  generally  look  upon  her  as  the  finest  inspiration 
we  have  among  us.” 

“I  know  they  do,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said,  irritably. 
“That’s  one  reason  I  think  she’s  a  pest.  People 
are  always  trying  to  live  up  to  her,  and  it  makes 
cowards  and  hypocrites  of  ’em.  Look  at  her  now!” 

Mrs.  Braithwaite  had  reached  the  hostess,  who 
was  shouting  in  concert  with  several  new  arrivals; 
but  when  Mrs.  Braithwaite  appeared,  the  voices  of 
all  this  group  were  somewhat  lowered  (though  they 
could  not  be  lowered  much  and  hope  to  be  audible) 
and,  what  was  more  remarkable,  Mrs.  Cromwell’s 
expression  and  her  manner  were  instantly  altered 


MRS.  DODGE’S  NEIGHBOUR 


177 


perceptibly: — so  were  the  expressions  and  manners 
of  the  others  about  her,  as  Mrs.  Dodge  vindictively 
pointed  out. 

“Look  at  that!”  she  said.  “Every  one  of  those 
poor  geese  is  trying  to  look  like  her\ — they  feel  they 
have  to  seem  as  noble  as  she  is !  Instinctively  they’re 
all  trying  to  take  on  her  hushed  sweetness.  Nobody 
dares  be  natural  anywhere  near  her.” 

“But  that’s  because  of  the  affection  people  feel 
for  her,”  Mrs.  Battle  explained.  “Don’t  you 
feel - ” 

“Affection  your  grandmother!”  the  brusque  lady 
interrupted.  “What  are  you  talking  about?” 

“Well,  reverence,  then.  Perhaps  that’s  the  better 
word  for  the  feeling  people  have  about  her.  They 
know  how  much  of  her  life  she  gives  to  good  works. 
She’s  at  the  head  of - ” 

“Yes,  she  certainly  is!”  Mrs.  Dodge  agreed, 
bitterly.  “She’s  the  head  and  front  of  every  up¬ 
lifting  movement  among  us.  You  can’t  open  your 
mail  without  finding  benefit  tickets  you  have  to  buy 
for  some  good  cause  she’s  chairman  of.  She’s  al¬ 
ways  the  girl  that  passes  the  hat:  she’s  the  one  that 
makes  us  feel  like  selfish  dogs  if  we  don’t  give  till  it 
hurts!  She’s  the  star  collector,  all  right!” ^ 


178  WOMEN 

“Well,  oughtn’t  we  to  be  grateful  that  she  takes 
such  duties  upon  herself?” 

“Do  we  ever  omit  any  of  our  gratitude?  Why,  the 
papers  are  full  of  it:  ‘It  is  the  sense  of  this  committee 
that,  except  for  the  noble,  unflagging,  and  self- 
sacrificing  devotion  of  Mrs.  Leslie  Braithwaite,  this 
fund  could  never  have  reached  the  generous  dimen¬ 
sions  necessary  for  the  carrying  on  of  this  work. 
Therefore,  be  it  resolved  that  the  thanks  of  this  entire 
organization’ — and  so  forth.  And,  as  a  matter  by 
the  way,  you  never  hear  whether  she  gave  any  of 
the  fund  herself.” 

“She  gives  time.  She  gives  energy.  Mr.  Battle 
says,  ‘Who  gives  himself  gives  all.’  Mrs.  Braith¬ 
waite  gives  herself.” 

“Yes,  she  does,”  Mrs.  Dodge  agreed.  “It’s  lier 
form  of  recreation!” 

Her  two  auditors  stared  at  her  incredulously,  so 
that  she  could  plainly  see  how  shocked  they  were; 
but,  before  either  of  them  spoke,  a  beautiful  change 
in  look  and  manner  came  upon  them.  Both  of 
them  elevated  their  chins  a  little,  so  that  their  faces 
slanted  more  toward  heaven  than  toward  earth; 
both  of  them  seemed  about  to  smile  angelically, 
but  stopped  just  short  of  smiling;  a  purified  softness 


MRS.  DODGE’S  NEIGHBOUR 


179 


came  into  their  eyes;  and,  altogether,  by  means  of 
various  other  subtle  little  manifestations,  the  two 
ladies  began  to  look  noble. 

Mrs.  Dodge  had  turned  her  back  toward  the  group 
about  the  hostess,  but  without  looking  round  she 
understood  what  the  change  in  her  two  companions 
portended.  “Good-bye,  ladies  of  Shalott,”  she 
said.  “The  curse  has  come  upon  you!”  And  she 
moved  away,  just  as  the  ennobled  two  stepped  for¬ 
ward  to  meet  Mrs.  Leslie  Braithwaite  in  her  approach 
to  them. 

“Clever  of  me!”  Mrs.  Dodge  thought,  with  some 
bitterness.  “Getting  myself  the  reputation  of  a 
‘dangerous  woman’!”  For  she  understood  well 
enough  that  she  would  do  no  injury  to  Mrs.  Braith¬ 
waite  in  attacking  her; — on  the  contrary,  the  injury 
would  inevitably  be  to  the  assailant;  and  yet  Mrs. 
Dodge  could  not  forbear  from  a  little  boomerang 
practice  at  this  shining  and  impervious  mark.  The 
reason,  unfortunately,  was  personal,  as  most  reasons 
are:  Mrs.  Dodge  had  come  to  the  “tea”  in  an  acute 
state  of  irritation  that  had  been  increasing  since 
morning.  In  fact,  she  had  begun  the  day  witli  a 
breakfast-table  argument  of  which  Mrs.  Braiftwaite 
was  the  subject. 


180 


WOMEN 


Mr.  Dodge  made  the  unfortunate  admission  that 
he  had  recently  sent  Mrs.  Braithwaite  a  check  for  a 
hundred  dollars,  his  subscription  to  the  Workers’ 
Welfare  League;  and  he  was  forced  into  subsequent 
admissions:  he  had  no  interest  in  the  Workers’  Wel¬ 
fare  League,  and  could  give  no  reason  for  sending  a 
check  to  it  except  that  Mrs.  Braithwaite  had  written 
him  appealing  for  a  subscription.  She  was  sure  he 
wouldn’t  like  to  miss  the  chance  to  aid  in  so  splendid 
a  movement,  she  said.  Now,  as  Mrs.  Braithwaite 
had  previously  written  twice  to  Mrs.  Dodge  in  almost 
the  same  words,  and  as  Mrs.  Dodge  had  twice  replied 
declining  to  make  a  donation,  the  argument  (so  to 
call  it)  on  Mrs.  Dodge’s  part  was  a  heated  one.  It 
availed  her  husband  little  to  protest  that  he  had  never 
heard  of  Mis,  Braithwaite’s  appeals  to  his  wife; 
Mrs.  Dodge  was  too  greatly  incensed  to  be  reason' 
able. 

Later  in  the  day  she  was  remorseful,  realizing 
that  she  had  taken  poor  Mr.  Dodge  for  her  anvil  be¬ 
cause  he  was  within  reach,  and  what  she  really 
wanted  to  hammer  wasn’t.  Her  remorse  applied 
itself  strictly  to  her  husband,  however,  and  she  had 
none  for  her  feeling  toward  the  lady  next  door.  Mrs. 
Dodge  and  her  neighbour  had  never  discovered 


MRS.  DODGE’S  NEIGHBOUR 


181 


any  point  of  congeniality:  Mrs.  Braithwaite’s  high 
serenity,  which  Mrs.  Dodge  called  suavity,  was  of  so 
paradoxical  a  smoothness  that  Mrs.  Dodge  said  it 
“rubbed  the  wrong  way  from  the  start.”  The 
uncongeniality  had  increased  with  time  until  it  be¬ 
came  a  settled  dislike,  so  far  as  Mrs.  Dodge  was  con¬ 
cerned;  and  now,  after  Mrs.  Leslie  Braithwaite’s 
successful  appeal  to  Mr.  Dodge  for  what  Mr.  Dodge’s 
wife  had  refused,  the  dislike  was  rankling  itself  into  a 
culmination  not  unlike  an  actual  and  lusty  hatred. 

Mrs.  Dodge  realized  her  own  condition; — she 
knew  hatred  is  bad  for  the  hater;  but  she  could  not 
master  the  continuous  anger  within  her.  Fascinated, 
she  watched  Mrs.  Leslie  Braithwaite  at  the  “tea”; 
could  not  help  watching  her,  although,  as  the  victim 
of  this  fascination  admitted  to  herself  in  so  many 
words,  the  sight  was  “poison”  to  her.  Nor  was  the 
poison  alleviated  by  the  effect  of  Mrs.  Braithwaite 
upon  the  other  guests:  everywhere  the  angelic  pres¬ 
ence  moved  about  the  capacious  rooms  it  was  pre¬ 
ceded  and  followed  by  deference.  And  when  Mrs. 
Braithwaite  joined  a  woman  or  a  group  of  women, 
Mrs.  Dodge  marked  with  a  hot  eye  how  that  woman 
or  group  of  women  straightway  hushed  a  little  and 
looked  noble. 


XV 


MRS.  DODGE  DECLINES  TO  TELL 


LS.  DODGE  went  home  early.  “I 
oughtn’t  to  have  come,”  she  told  her 
hostess,  confidentially,  in  parting.  “I  try 
to  be  a  Christian  sometimes,  but  this  is  one  of  the 
days  when  I  think  Nero  was  right.” 

“But  what - ” 


€(• 


'I  may  tell  you — some  day,”  Mrs.  Dodge  prom¬ 
ised,  and  gloomily  went  her  way. 

At  dinner  that  evening  she  was  grim,  softening 
little  when  her  husband  plaintively  resumed  his 
defence.  Lily  inquired  why  her  mother  was  of  so 
dread  a  countenance. 

“Me,”  Mr.  Dodge  explained.  “It  began  at  break¬ 
fast  before  you  were  up,  and  it’s  the  old  culprit,  Lily.” 

“I  guessed  that  much,”  Lily  said,  cheerfully.  “I 
haven’t  been  falling  in  love  with  anybody  foolish 
for  three  or  four  months  now;  and  that’s  the  only 
thing  I  ever  do  to  make  her  look  like  this,  so  I  knew 

it  must  be  you.  What  you  been  up  to?” 

182 


MRS.  DODGE  DECLINES 


183 


Aiding  in  good  causes,”  he  answered,  sighing. 
“She  hates  me  for  helping  the  Workers,  Lily.  Our 
next-door  neighbour  appealed  to  Csesar,  over  your 
mother’s  head.  I’ve  explained  two  or  three  hundred 
times  that  I  didn’t  know  there’d  been  any  previous 
request  to  her;  but  she  hates  my  wicked  plotting 
just  the  same.” 

“No.  I  only  hate  your  weakness,”  Mrs.  Dodge 
said,  not  relaxing  her  severity.  “You  were  so  eager 
to  please  that  woman  you  couldn’t  even  wait  to 
consult  your  wife.  Her  writing  to  you  and  ignor¬ 
ing  what  I’d  twice  written  her  was  the  rudest 
thing  I’ve  ever  had  done  to  me,  and  your  donation 
puts  you  in  the  position  of  approving  of  it.  She 
did  it  because  she’s  furious  with  me,  and  so - ” 

But  Lily  interrupted  her.  “Mamma!”  she  ex¬ 
claimed.  “Why,  you’re  talking  just  ridiculously! 
Everybody  knows  Mrs.  Braithwaite  couldn’t  be 
‘furious.’  Not  with  anybody!” 

“Couldn’t  she?  Then  why  did  she  do  such  an 
insulting  thing  to  me?  Don’t  you  suppose  she  knows 
it’s  insulting  to  show  she  can  get  a  poor  silly  husband 
to  do  something  his  wife  has  declined  to  do?  Is 
there  a  cattier  trick  in  the  whole  cattish  repertoire? 
She  did  it  because  she’s  the  slyest  puss  in  this  com- 


184  WOMEN 

munity  and  she  knows  I  know  it,  and  hates  me  for 
it!” 

Lily  stared  in  the  blankest  surprise.  “Why, 
it  just  sounds  like  anarchy!”  she  cried.  “I  never 
heard  you  break  out  like  that  before  except  when 
you  were  talking  about  some  boy  I  liked!  When  did 
you  get  this  way  about  Mrs.  Leslie  Braithwaite?” 

“I’ve  never  liked  her,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said.  “Never! 
I’ve  always  suspected  she  was  a  whited  sepulchre, 
and  now  I’ve  got  proof  of  it.” 

“Proof?  That’s  quite  a  strong  word,  Lydia,” 
Mr.  Dodge  reminded  her. 

“Thank  you!”  she  said.  “I  mean  exactly  what 
I’m  saying.  Mrs.  Braithwaite  did  this  thing  to  me 
out  of  deliberate  spitefulness;  and  she  did  it  because 
she  knows  what  I  think  of  her.” 

“But  you  said  you  had  ‘proof’  that  she’s  a  ‘whited 
sepulchre,’”  he  said.  “The  word  ‘proof’ - ” 

“May  we  assume  that  it  means  reliable  evidence 
reliably  confirmed?”  Mrs.  Dodge  asked,  with  satirical 
politeness.  “Suppose  you’ve  done  something  dis¬ 
graceful  and  another  person  happens  to  know  you 
did  it.  Then  suppose  you  play  a  nasty  trick  on  this 
other  person.  Wouldn’t  it  be  proof  that  you  hate 


MRS.  DODGE  DECLINES  185 

him  because  he  knows  you  did  the  disgraceful 
thing?’’ 

“I’m  afraid  I  don’t  follow  you,”  Mr.  Dodge  said, 
uncomfortably.  “When  did  I  ever  do  this  disgrace¬ 
ful  thing  you’re  talking  about?  If  it’s  actually  dis¬ 
graceful  to  subscribe  a  hundred  dollars  to  the 
Workers - ” 

“I’m  not  talking  of  that,”  his  wife  said.  “I’ll 
try  to  put  it  within  reach  of  your  intellect.  Suppose 
I  know  Mrs.  Braithwaite  to  be  a  whited  sepulchre; 
then  if  she  does  an  insulting  thing  to  me,  isn’t  that 
proof  she’s  furious  with  me  for  finding  her  out?” 

“No,”  he  answered.  “It  might  incline  one  to 
think  that  she  resented  your  poor  opinion  of  her, 
but  it  doesn’t  prove  anything  at  all.” 

“Doesn’t  it?  You  wouldn’t  say  so  if  you  knew 
what  I  know!” 

Lily’s  eyes  widened  in  hopeful  eagerness. 

“How  exciting!”  she  cried.  “Mamma,  what  do 
you  know  about  Mrs.  Braithwaite?” 

“Never  mind!” 

“But  you  said - ” 

“I  said,  ‘Never  mind’!” 

“But  I  do  mind!”  Lily  insisted.  “You  haven’t 


186 


WOMEN 


got  any  right  to  get  a  person’s  interest  all  worked 
up  like  that  and  then  just  say,  ‘Never  mind’!” 

“That’s  all  I  shall  say,  however,”  Mrs.  Dodge 
informed  her  stubbornly,  and  kept  to  her  word, 
though  Lily  continued  to  press  her  until  the  meal  was 
over.  Mr.  Dodge  made  no  effort  to  aid  his  daughter 
in  obtaining  the  revelation  she  sought; — he  appeared 
to  be  superior  to  the  curiosity  that  impelled  her;  but 
this  appearance  of  superiority  may  have  been  only 
an  appearance:  he  may  have  foreseen  that  his  wife 
would  presently  be  a  little  more  explicit  about  what 
she  had  implied  against  their  neighbour. 

In  fact,  Lily  had  no  sooner  gone  forth  upon  some 
youthful  junketing,  immediately  after  dinner,  than 
symptoms  of  forthcoming  revelation  were  mani¬ 
fested.  Mr.  Dodge’s  physician  allowed  him  one 
cigar  a  day,  and  it  had  just  begun  to  scent  the  library. 

“I  suppose,  of  course,  you’re  condemning  me  for  a 
reckless  talker,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said.  “You  assume 
that  I’m  willing  to  hint  slander  against  a  woman 
with  only  my  own  injury  for  a  basis,  instead  of  facts.” 

“On  the  contrary,  Lydia,”  he  returned,  mildly,  “I 
know  you  wouldn’t  have  said  what  you  did  unless 
you  have  something  serious  to  found  it  on.” 

Probably  she  vv^as  a  little  mollified,  but  she  did 


MRS.  DODGE  DECLINES 


187 


not  show  it.  “So  you  give  me  that  much  credit. 
she  asked,  sourly.  “I  imagine  it’s  because  you’re 
just  as  curious  as  Lily  and  hope  to  hear  what  I 
wouldn’t  tell  her.  Well,  I’m  not  going  to  gratify 
your  curiosity.” 

“No?”  He  picked  up  a  magazine  from  the  table 
beside  his  chair,  and  began  to  turn  over  the  pages. 
“Oh,  very  well!” 

“I  am  going  to  tell  you  something,  though,”  she 
said.  “It’s  because  I  think  you  ought  to  be  told 
at  least  'part  of  what  I  know.  It  may  be  good  for 
you.” 

“For  me?”  he  inquired,  calmly,  though  he  well 
understood  what  she  was  going  to  say  next. 

“Yes;  you  might  find  it  wiser  to  consult  your  wife 
next  time,  even  when  you’re  dealing  with  people 
you  think  are  saints.” 

“Why,  I  don’t  think  Mrs.  Braithwaite’s  a  saint,” 
he  protested.  “She  looks  rather  like  one — a  pretty 
one,  too — and  the  general  report  is  that  she  is  one; 
but  I  don’t  know  anything  more  than  that  about 
her.  She  happens  to  be  a  neighbour;  but  we’ve 
never  had  the  slightest  intimacy  with  her  and  her 
husband.  We’ve  never  been  in  their  house  or  they 
in  ours;  I  bow  to  her  when  I  see  her  and  sometimes 


188 


WOMEN 


exchange  a  few  words  with  her  across  the  hedge 
between  our  two  yards,  usually  about  the  weather. 
I  don’t  think  anything  about  her  at  all.” 

“Then  it’s  time  you  did,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said  with 
prompt  inconsistency. 

“All  right.  What  do  you  want  me  to  think  about 
her,  Lydia?” 

“Nothing!”  she  said,  sharply.  “Oh,  laugh  if  you 
want  to!  I’ll  tell  you  just  this  much:  I  found  out 
something  about  her  by  pure  accident;  and  I  decided 
I’d  never  tell  anybody  in  the  world — not  even  you. 
I’m  not  the  kind  of  person  to  wreck  anybody’s  life 
exactly;  and  I  decided  just  to  bury  what  I  happened 
to  find  out.  What’s  more,  I’d  have  kept  it  all 
buried  if  she’d  had  sense  enough  to  let  me  alone.  I 
wouldn’t  even  have  told  you  that  I  know  something 
about  her.” 

“It’s  something  really  serious?” 

“‘Serious’?”  she  said.  “No,  it’s  not  ‘serious.’ 
It’s  ruinous.” 

Mr.  Dodge  released  a  sound  from  his  mouth. 
“Whee-ew!”  Whistled,  not  spoken,  it  was  his  char¬ 
acteristic  token  that  he  found  himself  impressed. 
“You’ve  certainly  followed  the  right  course,  Lydia. 
Mrs.  Leslie  Braithwaite’s  standing  isn’t  just  a  high 


MRS.  DODGE  DECLINES 


189 


one;  it’s  lofty.  I  shouldn’t  care  to  be  the  person 
who  blasts  that  statue  off  its  pedestal; — sometimes 
statues  crush  the  blasters  when  they  fall.  I’m  glad 
you  kept  your  information  to  yourself.”  He  paused, 
and  then,  being  morally  but  an  ordinary  man,  he 
added,  “Not — not  that  I  see  any  particular  harm  in 
your  confiding  in  my  discretion  in  such  a  matter.” 

“Didn’t  I  explain  I’m  not  confiding  in  your  dis¬ 
cretion?”  Mrs.  Dodge  returned.  “Lately,  I  don’t 
believe  you  have  any.  I’ve  told  you  this  much  so 
that  next  time  you  won’t  be  so  hasty  in  sending 
checks  to  women  who  are  merely  using  you  to  annoy 
your  wife.” 

He  sighed.  “There’s  where  you  puzzle  me, 
Lydia.  If  you  found  out  something  ruinous  about 
Mrs.  Braithwaite,  as  you  say,  and  if  she  knows  you 
did — ^you  intimated  she  knows  it,  I  think?  ” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Then  I  should  think  you’d  be  the  last  person  in 
the  world  she’d  want  to  annoy.  I  should  think  she’d 
do  everything  on  earth  to  please  you  and  placate 
you.  She’d  want  to  keep  you  from  telling.  That’s 
the  weak  point  in  your  theory,  Lydia.” 

“It  isn’t  a  theory.  I’m  speaking  of  facts.” 

“But  if  she  knows  you’re  aware  of  what  might 


190 


WOMEN 


ruin  her,”  he  insisted,  “she  would  naturally  be  afraid 
of  you.  Then  why  would  she  do  a  thing  that  might 
infuriate  you?” 

“Because  she’s  a  woman,”  said  Mrs.  Dodge. 
“And  that’s  something  you’ll  never  understand!” 

“But  even  a  woman  would  behave  with  some 
remnants  of  caution,  under  the  circumstances, 
wouldn’t  she?” 

“Some  women  might.  Mrs.  Braithwaite  doesn’t 
because  she’s  so  sure  of  her  lofty  position  she  thinks 
she  can  deliberately  insult  me  and  I  won’t  dare  to  do 
anything  about  it.  She  wanted  to  show  me  that 
she  isn’t  afraid  of  me.” 

Mr.  Dodge  looked  thoughtfully  at  that  point 
,  upon  his  long  cigar  where  a  slender  ring  of  red  glow 
intervened  between  the  adhering  gray  ash  and  the 
brown  tobacco.  “Well,  at  least  she  shows  a  fiery 
heart,”  he  said.  “In  a  way,  you’d  have  to  consider 
her  action  quite  the  sporting  thing.  You  mean  she’s 
sent  you  a  kind  of  declaration  of  war,  don’t  you?” 

“If  you  want  to  look  at  it  that  way.  I  don’t  my¬ 
self.  I  take  it  just  as  she  meant  it,  and  that’s  as  a 
deliberate  insult.” 

“But  it  isn’t  an  ‘insult’  if  she  only  meant  it  to 
show  she  isn’t  afraid  of  you,  Lydia.” 


MRS.  DODGE  DECLINES 


191 


“It  is,  though,”  Mrs.  Dodge  insisted.  “What  she 
means  is  derision  of  me.  It’s  the  same  as  if  she 
said:  ‘Here’s  a  slap  in  the  face  for  you.  I  have  the 
satisfaction  of  humiliating  you  as  your  punishment 
for  knowing  what  you  do  know  about  me,  and  you 
can’t  retaliate,  because  you  aren’t  important  enough 
to  be  able  to  injure  me!’  It’s  just  the  same  as  if 
she’d  said  those  words  to  me.” 

“It  seems  quite  a  message,”  he  observed.  “Of 
course,  I  can’t  grasp  it  myself  because  I  haven’t  any 
conception  of  this  ruinous  proceeding  of  hers.  You 
were  the  only  witness,  I  assume?” 

“There  was  a  third  person  present,”  Mrs.  Dodge 
said,  stiffly.  “But  not  as  a  witness.” 

“Then  what  was  the  third  person  present  doing?” 

Mrs.  Dodge  looked  at  him  with  severity,  as  if  she 
reproved  him  for  tempting  her  to  do  something 
wrong;  then  she  took  from  a  basket  in  her  lap  a 
square  piece  of  partly  embroidered  linen  and  gave 
it  her  attention,  not  relaxing  this  preoccupation 
where  her  husband  began  to  repeat  his  question. 

“What  was  the  third  person - ” 

“I  heard  you,”  Mrs.  Dodge  interrupted,  frowning 
at  her  embroidery.  “If  I  told  you  that  much  I’d 
be  virtually  telling  the  whole  thing;  and  I’ve  decided 


WOMEN 


m 

not  to  do  that,  even  under  her  deliberate  provocation. 
If  I  let  myself  be  provoked  into  telling,  I’d  be  as 
as  small  as  she  is,  so  you  needn’t  hope  to  get  another 
word  out  of  me  on  the  subject.  The  only  answer  I’ll 
make  to  your  question  is  that  the  third  person  present 
was  not  her  husband.  ” 

“Oh!”  Mr.  Dodge  said,  loudly,  and,  in  his  sudden 
enlightenment,  whistled  “Whee-ew!”  again.  “So 
thafs  it!” 

“Not  at  all,”  she  said.  “You  needn’t  jump  to 
conclusions,  and  you’ll  never  know  anything  more 
about  it  from  me.  The  only  way  you  could  ever 
know  about  it  would  be  through  her  husband’s 
making  a  fuss  and  its  getting  into  the  papers  or 
something.” 

“I  see,”  Mr.  Dodge  said,  apparently  not  much 
discouraged.  “And,  since  it’s  something  he  hasn’t 
yet  made  any  fuss  about,  it’s  evidently  because  he 
doesn’t  know.” 

Mrs.  Dodge  cried,  and,  in  her  scorn  of  Mrs. 
Leslie  Braithwaite’s  consort,  dropped  the  embroidery 
into  the  basket  and  stared  fiercely  at  Mr.  Dodge; 
though  it  was  really  at  an  invisible  Mr.  Braithwaite 
that  she  directed  this  glare  of  hers.  Apparently 
the  unfortunate  gentleman  was  one  of  those  mere 


MRS.  DODGE  DECLINES  193 

husbands  whose  existence  seems  either  to  amuse  or 
to  incense  the  wives  of  more  dominant  men".  Mrs. 
Dodge  certainly  appeared  to  be  incensed.  “That 
miserable  little  pale  shadow  of  a  man!”  she  cried. 
“His  name’s  Leslie  Braithwaite,  but  do  you  ever 
hear  him  spoken  of  except  as  ‘Mrs.  Leslie  Braith- 
waite’s  husband’?  He  goes  down  to  his  little  brass- 
rod  works  at  eight  o’clock  every  morning  and  gets 
money  for  her  until  six  in  the  evening.  Then  he 
comes  home  and  works  on  the  account  books  of  her 
uplifts  until  bedtime.  If  they  go  out,  he  stands 
around  with  her  wrap  over  his  arm  and  doesn’t  speak 
unless  you  ask  him  a  question.  If  you  do,  he  begins 
his  answer  by  saying,  ‘My  wife  informs  me’ — ^How 
could  that  poor  little  creature  know  anything  about 
anything?  ” 

“But  you  know,”  Mr.  Dodge  persisted.  “You 
do  know,  do  you,  Lydia?” 

“I  know  what  I  know,”  she  replied,  and  resumed 
her  preoccupation  with  the  embroidery. 

“But  you  couldn’t  substantiate  it  by  another  wit¬ 
ness,  I  take  it,”  he  said,  musingly.  “That  is,  she 
feels  safe  against  you  because  if  you  should  ever 
decide  to  tell  what  you  know,  she  would  deny  it  and 
put  you  in  the  position  of  an  accuser  without  proofs. 


194 


WOMEN 


It  would  simply  be  your  word  against  hers,  and  she’d 

have  the  sympathy  that  goes  to  the  party  attacked 
and  also  the  advantage  of  her  wide  reputation  for 

lofty  character  and - ” 

“Go  on,”  his  wife  interrupted.  “Amuse  yourself 
all  you  like;  you’ll  not  find  out  another  thing  from 
me.  Perhaps,  if  you  should  ever  spend  the  morning 
at  home  digging  around  in  our  flower  border  along 
the  hedge  between  her  yard  and  ours,  you  might 
happen  to  hear  her  talking  to  her  chauffeur,  and 
in  that  case  you  might  get  to  know  something  more. 
Otherwise,  I  don’t  see  how  you  ever  will.” 

“Lydia!” 

“What?” 

“I’m  not  going  to  dig  in  any  flower  border!  I’m 

not  going  to  spy  around  any  hedge  just  to - ” 

“Neither  did  I !  ”  she  cried,  indignantly.  “ Did  you 
ever  know  me  to  do  any  spying?” 

“Certainly  not.  But  you  said - ” 

“I  said  ‘If  you  happen  to.’  You  don’t  suppose  I 
hid  and  listened  deliberately?  I  was  down  on  my 
hands  and  knees  planting  tulip  bulbs,  and  the  thick 
hedge  was  between  us.  That’s  how  it  happened, 

t 

and  why,  she  never  dreamed  anybody  was  near  her. 
I  didn’t  even  hear  her  come  in  that  part  of  the  yard 


MRS.  DODGE  DECLINES 


195 


until  I  heard  her  speaking  right  by  me,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hedge.  Please  don’t  be  quite  so  quick  to 
think  your  wife  would  be  willing  to  spy  on  another 
woman.” 

“I  didn’t,”  Mr.  Dodge  protested,  hastily.  “What 
did  she  say  to  the  chauffeur.^” 

“That,”  his  wife  replied,  severely,  “is  something 
you’ll  never  hear  from  me!” 

“From  whom  shall  I  hear  it,  then?” 

“I’ve  just  told  you  how  you  might  hear  it,”  she 
said,  plying  her  needle  and  seeming  to  give  it  all 
her  attention. 

“But  I  can’t  spend  my  time  in  the  tulip  bed, 
Lydia.” 

“That’s  not  what  I  meant.  I  said,  ‘If  her  husband 
ever  makes  such  a  fuss  that  it  gets  into  the  papers.’” 

“If  he  does,  I  might  find  out  what  she  said  to  the 
chauffeur?” 

“Oh,  maybe,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said;  and  she  gave 
him  a  sidelong  glance  of  some  sharpness,  then  quickly 
seemed  to  be  busy  again  with  her  work. 

“I  don’t  make  it  out  at  all,”  the  puzzled  gentle¬ 
man  complained.  “Apparently  you  overheard  Mrs. 
Braithwaite  saying  something  to  her  chauffeur  that 
would  be  ruinous  to  her  if  it  were  known — something 


196 


WOMEN 


that  might  cause  her  husband  to  make  a  public 
uproar  if  he  had  heard  it  himself.  Is  that  it.^’’ 

Mrs.  Dodge  began  to  hum  fragmentarily  to  herself 
and  seemed  concerned  with  nothing  in  the  world 
except  the  selection  of  a  proper  spool  of  thread  from 
her  basket. 

“Is  that  it,  Lydia.^” 

“You’ll  never  find  out  from  me,”  she  said,  search- 
ing  anxiously  through  the  basket.  “Anyhow,  I 
shouldn’t  think  you’d  need  to  ask  such  simple  ques¬ 
tions.” 

“So  that  is  it!  What  you  heard  her  say  to  her 
chauffeur  would  ruin  her  if  people  knew  about  it.  Was 
she  talking  to  the  chauffeur  about  her  husband?  ” 

“Good  gracious!”  Mrs.  Dodge  cried,  derisively. 
“What  would  she  be  talking  to  anybody  about  that 
poor  little  thing  for?  She  never  does.  I  don’t  be¬ 
lieve  anybody  ever  heard  her  mention  him  in  her 
life!” 

“Then  was  she  talking  to  the  chauffeur  about 
some  other  man?” 

“Of  all  the  ideas!  If  a  woman  were  in  love  with  a 
man  not  her  husband,  do  you  think  she’d  tell  her  serv¬ 
ants  about  it?  Besides,  they’ve  only  had  this  chauf¬ 
feur  about  two  weeks.  Have  you  noticed  him?’* 


MRS.  DODGE  DECLINES 


197 


“Yes,’’  said  Mr.  Dodge.  “I’ve  seen  him  sitting  in 
their  car  in  front  of  the  house  several  times,  and  I 
was  quite  struck  with  him.  He  seemed  to  be  not 
only  one  of  the  handsomest  young  men  I  ever  saw, 
but  to  have  rather  the  look  of  a  gentleman.” 

“So?”  Mrs.  Dodge  said,  inquiringly;  and  her  tone 
was  the  more  significant  because  of  her  appearing 
to  be  wholly  preoccupied  with  her  work-basket. 
“You  noticed  that,  did  you?” 

“You  don’t  mean  to  say- - ” 

“I  don’t  mean  to  say  anything  at  all,”  she  inter¬ 
rupted,  crisply.  “I’ve  told  you  that  often  enough  for 
you  to  begin  to  understand  it.” 

“All  right,  I  do.  Well,  when  she’d  said  whatever 
she  did  say  to  the  chauffeur,  what  happened?” 

“Oh,  that,”  she  returned,  “I’m  perfectly  willing 
to  tell  you.  I  got  up  and  looked  at  her  over  the 
hedge.  I  wasn’t  going  to  stay  there  and  listen — 
and  I  certainly  wasn’t  going  to  crawl  away  on  my 
hands  and  knees!  I  just  looked  at  her  quietly  and 
turned  away  and  came  into  the  house.” 

“What  did  she  do?” 

“She  was  absolutely  disconcerted.  Her  face  just 
seemed  to  go  all  to  pieces; — it  didn’t  look  like  her 
face  at  all.  She  was  frightened  to  death,  and  I 


/ 


198 


WOMEN 


never  saw  anything  plainer.  That’s  one  reason  she 
hates  me  so — because  I  saw  her  looking  so  afraid  of 
me  and  she  couldn’t  help  it.  Of  course,  as  soon  as  I 
got  into  the  house  I  looked  out  through  the  lace 
curtains  at  a  window — ^you  could  hardly  expect  me 
not  to — and  I  saw  her  just  going  back  into  her 
own  house  by  the  side  door.  She’d  braced  up  and 
looked  all  stained-glass  Joan  of  Arc  again  by  that 
time.” 

Mr.  Dodge  sat  waggling  his  head  and  muttering  in 
wonder.  “Of  all  the  curious  things!”  he  said. 
“Human  nature  is  so  everlastingly  full  of  oddities  it’s 
always  turning  up  new  ones  that  you  sit  and  stare 
at  and  can’t  believe  are  real.  There  they  are,  right 
before  your  eyes,  and  yet  they’re  incredible.  What 
did  she  say  to  the  chauffeur 

“No,  no,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said,  reprovingly.  “That’s 
what  I  canH  tell  you.”  And  she  added,  “I  should 
think  you  could  guess  it,  anyhow.” 

“Was  there - ”  He  paused  a  moment,  ponder¬ 

ing.  “Did  she  use  any  specially  marked  terms  of 
endearment  in  addressing  him?” 

“No,”  Mrs.  Dodge  replied,  returning  her  attention 
to  her  work; — “not  terms.” 

“Oh,”  he  said.  “Just  one  term,  then.  She  used 


MRS.  DODGE  DECLINES  199 

a  single  term  of  endearment  in  addressing  him. 
Is  that  correct?” 

Again  Mrs.  Dodge  became  musical:  she  hummed 
a  cheerful  tune,  but  her  face  was  overcast  with  a  dour 
solemnity. 

“So  she  did!”  her  husband  exclaimed.  “Did  she 
call  him  ‘dear’?” 

“No,  she  didn’t.”' 

“‘Dearest’?” 

“No,  she  didn’t.” 

“Not,”  he  said,  incredulously,  “not — * darling^V^ 

Mrs.  Dodge  instantly  resumed  her  humming. 

“By  George!”  her  husband  cried.  “Why,  that’s 
just  awful!  What  else  did  she  say  to  him  besides 
calling  him  ‘  darling  ’  ?  ” 

“I  didn’t  say  she  said  anything  else,”  Mrs.  Dodge 
returned,  primly.  “The  rest  wasn’t  so  important, 
anyhow,  and  she  was  speaking  in  a  low  voice.  I 
thought  the  rest  of  it  was,  ‘Rosemary,  that’s  for 
remembrance.’  I  couldn’t  be  sure  because  I  didn’t 
hear  it  distinctly.” 

“But  you  did  distinctly  hear  her  call  him  ‘dar¬ 
ling’?” 

“WTiat  I  heard  distinctly,”  Mrs.  Dodge  replied, 
“I  heard  distinctly.” 


200 


WOMEN 


“So  what  Mrs.  Leslie  Braithwaite  said  to  the 
chauffeur  was  this:  ‘Bosemary,  that’s  for  remem¬ 
brance,  darling’?” 

“You  must  draw  your  own  conclusions,”  she  ad¬ 
vised  him,  severely. 

“I  do — rather!  ”  he  returned,  and  in  a  marvelling 
tone  slowly  pronounced  their  neighbour’s  name, 
“Mrs.  Leslie  Braithwaite!  Of  all  the  women  in  the 
world,  Mrs.  Leslie  Braithwaite!  And  when  you 
rose  up,  and  she  saw  you,  she  just  went  all  to  pieces 
and  didn’t  say  a  word?” 

“I  told  you.” 

“What  did  the  handsome  chauffeur  do?” 

“Just  stood  there.” 

“It’s  beyond  anything!”  Mr.  Dodge’s  amazement 
was  not  abated; — ^he  shook  his  head  and  uttered 
groaning  sounds  of  pessimistic  wonderment.  “I 
suppose  the  true  meaning  of  the  saying,  ‘It’s  the 
unexpected  that  happens,’  is  that  life  is  always  teach¬ 
ing  us  to  accept  the  incredible.  How  long  ago 
was  it?” 

“A  week  ago  yesterday.” 

“Have  you  seen  her  since?” 

“I  never  talk  to  her  or  she  to  me.  We  say,  ‘How 
do  you  do?  What  lovely  weather!’  and  that’s  all 


MRS.  DODGE  DECLINES 


201 


we  ever  do  say.  We  haven’t  even  any  neighbourly 
contact  through  congenial  servants,  because  of  our 
having  coloured  people; — hers  are  white.  I  haven’t 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  since  it  happened  until  this 
afternoon,  when  she  came  to  Mrs.  Cromwell’s  tea. 
Of  course,  she  knew  I  was  looking  at  her,  and  she 
knew  perfectly  what  I  was  thinking — particularly 
about  her  insult  to  me  in  making  such  a  goose  of  my 
husband.” 

‘‘But,  Lydia - ” 

“She  was  having  the  time  of  her  life  over  that!” 

“Well,”  he  said,  reflectively,  “leaving  out  the 
question  of  whether  or  not  I  was  a  goose  especially, 
and  considering  her  without  personal  bias,  I  must 
say  that  under  the  circumstances  she’s  shown  a 
mighty  picturesque  intricacy  of  character,  as  well  as  a 
pretty  dashing  kind  of  hardihood.  If,  as  you  believe, 
she  sent  her  note  to  me  as  really  a  derisive  taunt 
— a  gauntlet  flung  at  you  with  mocking  laughter — 
and  all  the  while  she  knows  you  know  of  her  philan¬ 
dering  with  a  good-looking  varlet - ” 

“She’s  a  bad  woman!”  Mrs.  Dodge  exclaimed, 
angrily.  “That’s  all  there  is  to  it,  and  you  needn’t 
be  so  poetical  about  her!” 

“Good  gracious,  Lydia,  I  wasn’t - ” 


WOMEN 


202 

“Never  mind!  We  can  talk  of  her  just  as  well 
without  any  references  to  gauntlets  and  mocking 
laughter  and  varlets.  That  is,  if  you  insist  upon 
talking  about  her  at  all.  For  my  part,  I  prefer  just 
to  keep  her  entirely  out  of  my  mind.” 

“Very  well,”  he  assented,  meekly.  “I  don’t  know 
that  I  can  keep  anything  so  singular  out  of  my  mind; 
but  I  won’t  speak  of  it  if  it  annoys  you.  What  else 
shall  we  talk  of?” 

“Anything  in  the  world  except  that  detestable 
woman,”  Mrs.  Dodge  replied.  Then,  after  some 
moments  of  silence  over  her  embroidery,  she  added 
abruptly,  “Of  course,  you  don’t  think  she’s  detesta^ 
ble!” 

“I  only  said - ” 

“‘Picturesque’  was  what  you  said.  ‘Dashing’ 
was  another  thing  you  said.  You’re  quite  fascinated 
with  her  derisive  gauntlets  and  her  mocking  laughter! 
Dear  me,  if  that  isn’t  like  men!” 

“But  I  only - ” 

“Oh,  murder!”  Mrs.  Dodge  moaned,  interrupting 
him.  “I  thought  you  said  you  weren’t  going  to  talk 
about  her  any  more!” 

At  this  he  showed  spirit  enough  to  laugh.  “You 
know  well  enough  we’re  both  going  to  keep  on 


MRS.  DODGE  DECLINES  203 

talking  about  her,  Lydia.  What  do  you  intend  to 
do?” 

“About  what?”  Mrs.  Dodge  looked  surprised. 
“About  her,  you  mean?  Why,  naturally,  I  intend 
to  keep  on  doing  what  I  have  been  doing,  and  that’s 
nothing  whatever  except  to  hold  my  peace; — don’t 
descend  to  the  level  of  feuds  with  intriguing  women. 
She  gave  me  a  clew,  though,  this  afternoon.” 

“What  sort  of  a  clew,  Lydia?” 

“I  don’t  suppose  a  man  could  understand,  but 
I’ll  try  to  give  you  a  glimmering.  When  she  wrote 
that  note  to  you,  there  was  one  thing  she  hadn’t 
thought  of.  She  thought  of  it  this  afternoon  at  that 
tea:  it  struck  her  all  of  a  sudden  that  I  could  make 
things  a  little  unpleasant  for  her  if  I  took  the  notion 
to.  She  just  happened  to  remember  that  Mrs. 
Cromwell  is  my  most  intimate  friend,  and  that  she 
is  the  grandest  old  rock-bottomed  mountain  this 
community  can  boast.  That  woman  all  at  once  re¬ 
membered,  and  got  afraid  I  might  tell  my  friends.” 

“How  do  you  know  she  did?” 

“That’s  what  a  man  couldn’t  see.  I  knew  it  by  a 
lot  of  little  things  I  couldn’t  put  into  words  if  I  tried, 
but  principally  I  knew  it  by  watching  her  manner 
with  Mrs.  Cromwell.” 


204 


WOMEN 


“You  mean  she  tried  to  ingratiate  herself?”  he 
asked.  “Her  manner  was  more  winsome  or  flatter¬ 
ing  than  usual?” 

“No,  not  exactly.  Not  so  open — you  couldn’t 
understand — but  it  was  perfectly  clear  to  me  she 
was  having  the  time  of  her  life  thinking  of  what  she’d 
done  to  me  through  my  husband’s  weakness,  when  all 
at  once  she  thought  of  my  influence  with  the  Crom¬ 
wells.  Well,  she’s  afraid  of  it,  and  it  made  her  wish 
she  hadn’t  gone  quite  so  far  with  me.  She’d  give  a 
whole  lot  to-night.  I’ll  wager,  if  she’d  been  just  a  little 
less  picturesque  with  her  gauntlet  throwing  and  her 
mocking  laughter!  You  asked  me  what  I  was  going 
to  do  and  I  told  you  '‘Nothing.’  But  she^ll  do 
something.  She’s  afraid,  and  she’ll  make  a  move  of 
some  sort.  You’ll  see.” 

“But  what?  What  could  she  do?” 

“I  don’t  know,  but  you’ll  see.  You’ll  see  before 
long,  too.” 

“Well,  I’m  inclined  to  hope  so,”  he  said.  “It 
would  certainly  be  interesting;  but  I  doubt  her  mak¬ 
ing  any  move  at  all.  I’m  afraid  you  won’t  turn  out 
to  be  a  good  prophet.” 

On  the  contrary,  he  himself  was  a  poor  prophet; 
for  sometimes  destiny  seems  to  juggle  miraculously 


MRS.  DODGE  DECLINES  205 

with  coincidences  in  order  to  attract  our  attention 
to  the  undiscovered  laws  that  produce  them.  In 
fact,  Mr.  Dodge  was  so  poor  a  prophet — and  so 
near  to  intentional  burlesque  are  the  manners  of 
destiny  in  its  coincidence  juggling — that  at  this 
moment  Mrs.  Leslie  Braithwaite’s  husband  had  just 
rung  the  Dodges’  front-door  bell.  Two  minutes 
later  a  mulatto  housemaid  appeared  in  the  door¬ 
way  of  the  library  and  produced  a  sensational  ef¬ 
fect  merely  by  saying,  “Mrs.  Braithwaite  and 
Mr.  Braithwaite  is  calling.  I  showed  ’em  into  the 
drawing-room.” 

She  withdrew,  and  the  staggered  couple,  after  an 
interval  of  incoherent  whispering,  went  forth  to  wel¬ 
come  their  guests. 


XVI 

MRS.  LESLIE  BRAITH WAITE ’s  HUSBAND 

Mrs.  BRAITHWAITE  was  superb;— at 

least,  that  was  Mr.  Dodge’s  impersonal 

conception  of  her.  Never  before  had  he 

seen  sainthood  so  suavely  combined  with  a  piquant 

beauty,  nor  an  evening  gown  of  dull  red  silk  and 

black  lace  so  exquisitely  invested  with  an  angelic 

presence.  For  to-night  this  lady  looked  not  only 

noble,  she  looked  charming;  and  either  his  wife  had 

made  a  grotesque  mistake  or  he  stood  before  an 

actress  unmatched  in  his  experience.  She  began 

talking  at  once,  in  her  serene  and  sweet  contralto 

voice — a  beautiful  voice,  delicately  hushed  and 

almost  imperceptibly  precise  in  its  pronunciation, 

“It  seemed  to  us  really  rather  absurd,  Mrs.  Dodge, 

that  you  and  your  husband  should  be  our  next-door 

neighbours  for  so  long  without  even  having  set  foot 

in  our  house  or  we  in  yours.  And  as  Mr.  Dodge 

has  lately  been  so  generous  to  my  poor  little  Workers’ 

Welfare  League — the  unhappy  creatures  do  need 

206 


MRS.  BRAITHWAITE’S  HUSBAND  m 


help  so,  and  the  ladies  of  the  committee  were  so 
touched  by  your  kindness,  Mr.  Dodge — we  thought 
we’d  just  make  that  an  excuse  to  call,  even  thus  in¬ 
formally  and  for  only  a  few  minutes.  We  wanted  to 
express  the  thanks  of  the  League,  of  course,  and  we 
thought  it  was  about  time  to  say  we  aren’t  really  so 
unneighbourly  as  we  may  have  seemed — and  we 
hope  you  aren’t,  either!” 

“No,  indeed,”  Mr.  Dodge  responded  with  a  hasty 
glance  of  sidelong  uneasiness  at  his  wife.  Her  large 
face  was  red  and  rather  dismayingly  fierce  as  she 
sat  stiffly  in  the  stiffest  chair  in  the  Dodges’  white- 
walled,  cold,  and  rigidly  symmetrical  drawing-room; 
but  she  said,  “No,  indeed,”  too,  though  not  so 
heartily  as  her  husband  did.  In  fact,  she  said  it 
grimly;  yet  he  was  relieved,  for  her  expression  made 
him  fear  that  she  would  say  nothing  at  all. 

“One  of  the  things  I  find  to  regret  about  modem 
existence,”  Mrs.  Braithwaite  continued,  in  her  beau¬ 
tiful  voice,  “is  the  disappearance  of  neighbourliness 
even  in  a  quiet  suburban  life  like  yours  and  ours. 
Of  course,  this  is  anything  but  a  new  thought,  yet 
how  concretely  our  two  houses  have  illustrated 
it!  So  it  did  seem  time,  at  last,  to  break  the  ice, 
especially  as  I  have  good  reason  to  think  that  just 


208 


WOMEN 


these  last  few  days  you  must  have  been  thinking 
of  me  as  quite  a  naughty  person,  Mrs.  Dodge.” 

Mrs.  Dodge  stared  at  her;  appeared  to  stare  not 
only  with  astounded  eyes  but  with  a  slowly  opening 
mouth.  “What.?  What  did  you  say.?”  she  asked, 
huskily. 

“I’m  afraid  you’ve  been  thinking  of  me  as  rather 
naughty,”  the  serene  caller  said,  and  her  ever  prom¬ 
ised  smile  seemed  a  little  more  emphatically  promised 
than  it  had  been.  “I  ought  to  confess  to  you  that 
as  a  collector  for  my  poor  little  Workers’  League  I’m 
terribly  unscrupulous.  It’s  such  a  struggling  little 
organization,  and  the  need  of  help  is  so  frightfully 
pressing,  I  may  as  well  admit  I  haven’t  any  scruples 
at  all  how  I  get  money  for  it.  Yet,  of  course,  I 
know  I  ought  to  apologize  for  asking  Mr.  Dodge  to 
contribute  to  a  cause  that  you  didn’t  feel  particularly 
interested  in  yourself.’^ 

“Oh!”  Mrs.  Dodge  said,  and  to  her  husband’s 
consternation  she  added  formidably:  “Is  that  what 
you’re  talking  about !  ” 

No  disastrous  effect  was  visible,  however.  Mrs. 
Braithwaite  nodded  sunnily.  “I’m  sure  you’ll  for¬ 
give  me  for  the  sake  of  the  happiness  the  money 
brought  to  a  pitiful  little  family — the  father  hasn’t 


MRS.  BRAITHWAITE’S  HTJSBAND  £09 


had  any  work  for  eight  months;  there  are  four  young 
children  and  one  just  born.  If  you  could  see  their 
joy  when - ” 

“I  dare  say!”  Mrs.  Dodge  interrupted.  “I’m 
glad  it  did  some  good!” 

“I  was  sure  you’d  feel  so.”  Mrs.  Braithwaite 
glanced  gently  at  her  host,  whose  face  was  a  remark¬ 
able  study  of  geniality  in  conflict  with  apprehension; 
— then  her  gaze  returned  to  her  hostess.  “I  wanted 
to  make  my  peace  not  only  for  myself,”  she  added, 
“but  for  your  husband.  I’m  sure  you’re  going  to 
forgive  him,  Mrs.  Dodge.” 

Innocently,  Mr.  Dodge  supposed  this  to  be  in¬ 
tended  as  a  kindly  effort  on  his  behalf  and  in  the 
general  interests  of  amiability.  He  was  surprised, 
therefore,  and  his  apprehensions  of  an  outbreak  on 
the  part  of  his  wife  were  little  abated,  when  he  per¬ 
ceived  that  its  effect  upon  her  was  far  from  placative. 
Her  ample  flgure  seemed  to  swell;  she  was  red  but 
grew  redder;  her  action  in  breathing  became  not 
only  visible  but  noticeable;  to  his  appalled  vision 
she  seemed  about  to  snort  forth  sparks.  For  several 
perilous  moments  she  did  not  speak; — then,  after  com¬ 
pressing  her  lips  tightly,  she  said:  “Mr.  Dodge  sent 
you  his  check  upon  my  direction,  of  course.  Natur- 


210 


WOMEN 


ally,  he  consulted  me.  I  told  him  that  since  you 
had  twice  solicited  me  for  a  subscription  it  would  be 
best  for  us  to  send  you  some  money  and  be  done 
with  it.” 

Mrs.  Braithwaite  uttered  a  soothing  sound  as  of 
amused  relief.  “That’s  so  much  nicer,”  she  said. 
“I  was  afraid  you  might  have  been  annoyed  with 
both  of  us — with  both  poor  Mr.  Dodge  and  myself — 
but*  that  exculpates  us.  I’m  so  very  glad.”  She 
turned  to  the  perturbed  host.  “I  was  so  afraid  I’d 
involved  you,  Mr.  Dodge — perhaps  quite  beyond 
forgiveness.” 

“Not  at  all — not  at  all,”  he  said,  removing  his 
gaze  with  difficulty  from  his  wife’s  face.  “Oh,  no. 
Everything — everything’s  been  perfectly  pleasant,” 
he  floundered,  and  Mrs.  Dodge’s  expression  did  not 
reassure  him  that  he  was  saying  the  right  thing. 
“Perfectly — ^pleasant,”  he  repeated,  feebly. 

“I  so  hoped  it  would  be,”  Mrs.  Braithwaite  said. 
“I  hoped  Mrs.  Dodge  wouldn’t  be  very  hard  on  you 
for  aiding  in  such  a  good  cause.” 

“No,”  he  returned,  nervously.  “No,  she — she 
wasn’t.  She  proved  to  be  entirely — ah — amiable, 
of  course.”  And  again  he  was  dismayed  by  Mrs. 
Dodge’s  expression. 


.  MRS.  BRAITHWAITE’S  HUSBAND  211 


•‘Of  course,”  Mrs.  Braithwaite  agreed,  sunnily, 

with  only  the  quickest  and  sweetest  little  fling  of  a 

glance  at  her  hostess,  “I  was  sure  she’d  forgive  you. 

Well,  at  any  rate,  we’ve  both  made  our  peace  with 

her  now  and  established  the  entente  cordiale,  I 

hope.”  She  turned  toward  her  husband  and  spoke 

his  name  gently,  in  the  tone  that  is  none  the 

( 

less  a  command  to  the  obedient  follower:  “Leslie.” 
It  was  apparently  her  permission  for  him  to  pre¬ 
pare  himself  for  departure;  but  it  may  also  have 
been  a  signal  or  command  for  him  to  do  something 
else; — Mr.  Dodge  noticed  that  it  brought  an  oddly 
plaintive  look  into  the  eyes  of  the  small  and  dark 
Braithwaite. 

Throughout  the  brief  but  strained  interview  he 
had  been  sitting  in  one  of  the  Dodges’  rigid  chairs  as 
quietly  as  if  he  had  been  a  well-behaved  little  son  of 
Mrs.  Braithwaite’s,  brought  along  to  make  a  call  upon 
grown  people.  He  was  slender  as  well  as  short;  of 
a  delicate,  almost  fragile,  appearance;  and  in  com¬ 
pany  habitually  so  silent,  so  self-obliterative  that  it 
might  well  have  been  a  matter  of  doubt  whether  he 
was  profoundly  secretive  or  of  an  overwhelming 
timidity.  But  as  he  sat  in  the  Dodges’  slim  black 
chair,  himself  rather  like  that  chair,  with  his  trim, 


WOMEN 


thin  little  black  legs  primly  uncrossed  and  his  small 
black  back  straight  and  stiff,  there  were  suggestions 
that  he  was  more  secretive  than  timid.  Under  his 
eyes  were  semicircles  of  darkness,  as  if  part  of  what 
he  secreted  might  have  been  a  recent  anguish,  either 
physical  or  mental.  Moreover,  if  he  had  been  in 
reality  the  well-trained  little  boy  his  manners  during 
this  short  evening  call  had  suggested,  those  semi¬ 
circles  imder  his  eyes  would  have  told  of  anguish 
so  acute  that  the  little  boy  had  wept. 

When  his  wife  said  “Leslie,”  he  swallowed;  there 
came  into  his  eyes  the  odd  and  plaintive  look  his 
host  had  noticed — it  was  the  look  now  not  of  a  good 
little  boy  but  of  a  good  little  dog,  obedient  in  a  pain¬ 
ful  task  set  by  the  adored  master — and  he  stood  up 
immediately. 

“We  really  must  be  running,”  his  wife  said,  rising, 
too.  “This  was  just  our  funny  little  effort  to  break 
the  ice.  I  do  hope  it  has,  and  that  you’ll  both  come 
in  to  see  us  some  evening.  I  do  hope  you’ll  both 
come.”  She  put  an  almost  imperceptible  stress  on 
the  word  “both”  as  she  moved  toward  the  door;  then 
said  “Leslie”  again.  He  was  still  standing  beside 
his  chair. 


MRS.  BRAITHWAITE’S  HUSBAND  213 


“Ah — ”  he  said;  then  paused  and  coughed.  “I — 
I  wonder - ” 

“Yes?”  his  host  said,  encouragingly. 

“I — that  is,  I  was  going  to  say,  by  the  way,  I 
wonder  if  you  happen  to  know  of  a  good  chauffeur, 
Mr.  Dodge.” 

At  this,  Mrs.  Dodge’s  breathing  became  audible 
as  well  as  visible,  there  fell  a  moment  of  such  silence. 

“A — a  chauffeur?  No,”  Mr.  Dodge  said.  “No, 
I  don’t  think  I  do.  We  haven’t  one  ourselves;  we 
do  our  own  driving.  A  chauffeur?  No.  I’m  afraid 
I  don’t  know  of  any.” 

“I  see,”  Braithwaite  returned.  “I  just  happened 
to  ask.  We’ve — ah — lost  the  man  we’ve  had  lately. 
He  was  a  very  good  driver  and  we  haven’t  anybody 
to  take  his  place.” 

Mrs.  Dodge  spoke  sepulchrally  as  she  rose  from 
her  chair.  “That’s  too  bad,”  she  said,  and,  to  her 
husband’s  relief,  stopped  there,  adding  nothing. 

“Yes,”  Braithwaite  assented.  “He  was  a  very 
good  driver  indeed;  but  he  was  a  college  graduate 
and  only  yesterday  he  found  another  position,  tutor¬ 
ing,  and  left  us.  He  was  a  very  good  man — ^Dolling.” 

“What?”  Mr.  Dodge  said.  “Who?” 


214 


WOMEN 


“Dolling,”  Braithwaite  replied;  and  followed  his 
wife  to  the  door.  “I  just  happened  to  mention  his 
name;  Dolling.  I — didn’t  address  you  as  ‘darling,’ 
Mr.  Dodge,  though  I  see  how  you  might  easily  have 
thought  I  did.  The  man’s  name  was  Dolling.  I 
shouldn’t  like  you  to  think  I’d  take  the  liberty  of 
calling  you - ” 

But  here  he  was  interrupted  by  such  an  uproarious 

« 

shout  of  laughter  from  his  host  that  his  final  words 
were  lost.  Mr.  Dodge’s  laughter  continued,  though 
it  was  interspersed  with  hearty  expressions  of  hospi¬ 
tality  and  parting  cheer,  until  the  callers  had  passed 
the  outer  threshold  and  the  door  had  closed  behind 
them.  Then  the  hilarious  gentleman  returned  from 
the  hall  to  face  a  wife  who  found  nothing  in  the 
world,  just  then,  a  laughing  matter. 

“The  worst  thing  you  did,”  she  assured  him,  “was 
to  be  so  fascinated  that  you  told  her  I’d  been  amiable 
to  you  about  your  sending  that  check — ^just  after  I 
said  I  knew  all  about  it  before  you  sent  it  and  had 
told  you  to  send  it!  That  was  a  pleasant  position 
to  put  your  wife  in,  wasn’t  it.^” 

“Lydia!”  he  shouted,  still  outrageous  in  his  mirth. 
“Let’s  forget  that  part  of  it  and  remember  only 
Dolling!” 


MRS.  BRAITHWAITE’S  HUSBAND  215 

“All  right,”  she  said,  and  her  angry  eyes  flashed. 
“Suppose  his  name  was  Dolling.  What  was  she 
talking  to  him  about  rosemary  and  remembrance 
for.?” 

“I  don’t  know,  and  it  doesn’t  seem  important. 
The  only  thing  I  can  get  my  mind  on  is  your  keeping 
to  yourself  so  solemnly  the  scandalous  romance  of 
Dolling!”  And  becoming  more  respectably  sober, 
for  a  time,  he  asked  her;  “Don’t  you  really  see  a  little 
fun  in  it,  Lydia.?” 

“What!”  she  cried.  “Do  you?  After  you  saw 
that  wretched  little  man  of  hers  stand  up  there  and 
recite  his  lesson  like  a  trained  monkey?  Did  you 
look  at  her  while  he  was  performing?  She  stood  in 
the  doorway  and  held  the  whip-lash  over  him  till  he 
finished!  And  if  this  idol  of  yours  is  so  innocent 
and  pure,  why  did  she  go  all  to  pieces  the  way  she 
did  when  she  saw  me  that  morning  by  the  hedge?” 

“Why,  don’t  you  see?”  he  cried.  “Of  course  she 
saw  you  thought  she’d  called  the  man  ‘darling’!  She 
knew  you  didn’t  know  his  name  was  Dolling.  Isn’t 
it  plain  to  you  yetf^^ 

“No!”  his  wife  said,  vehemently.  “It  isn’t  plain 
to  me  and  it  never  will  be!*^ 


xvn 


“dolling” 

^GAINST  all  reason  she  persisted  in  a  sinister 
%  interpretation  of  her  lovely  neighbour’s 
conduct; — ^never  would  Mrs.  Dodge  admit 
that  Mr.  Dodge  had  the  right  of  the  matter,  and 
after  a  time  she  complained  that  she  found  his  con¬ 
tinued  interest  in  it  “pretty  tiresome.” 

“You  keep  bringing  it  up,”  she  said,  “because 
you  think  you’ve  had  a  wretched  little  triumph  over 
me.  It’s  one  of  those  things  that  never  can  be 
settled  either  way,  and  I  don’t  care  to  talk  of  it  any 
more.  If  you  want  to  occupy  your  spare  thoughts  I 
have  a  topic  to  offer  you.” 

“What  topic?” 

Mrs.  Dodge  shook  her  head  in  a  certain  way. 
"Lily.” 

“Oh,  dear  me!”  he  said.  “It  isn’t  happening 

•  ^  yy 

again  r 

She  informed  him  that  it  was,  indeed.  Lily’s  ex¬ 
treme  affections  were  once  more  engaged.  “We’re 

£16 


‘‘DOLLING” 


217 


in  for  it!”  was  the  mother’s  preface,  as  she  began  the 
revelation;  and,  when  she  concluded,  her  husband 
sorrowfully  agreed  with  her. 

“It’s  awful  now  and  will  be  worse,”  he  said;  and 
thus  his  “spare  thoughts”  became  but  too  thoroughly 
occupied.  In  his  growing  anxiety  over  his  daughter, 
he  ceased  to  think  of  his  neighbours; — the  handsome 
chauffeur  passed  from  his  mind.  Then  abruptly, 
one  day,  as  the  wandering  searchlight  of  a  harboured 
ship  may  startlingly  clarify  some  obscure  thing  upon 
the  shore,  a  chance  conjuncture  illuminated  for  him 
most  strangely  the  episode  of  Dolling. 

He  was  lunching  with  a  younger  member  of  his 
firm  in  a  canyon  restaurant  downtown,  and  his 
attention  happened  to  become  concentrated  upon  a 
debonair  young  man  who  had  finished  his  lunch  and 
was  now  engaged  in  affable  discussion  with  the  pretty 
cashier.  He  was  one  of  those  yoimg  men,  sometimes 
encountered,  who  have  not  only  a  strong  masculine 
beauty,  but  the  look  of  talent,  with  both  the  beauty 
and  the  talent  belittled  by  an  irresponsible  twinkle 
of  the  eye.  Standing  below  the  level  of  the  cashier’s 
desk,  which  was  upon  a  platform,  there  was  something 
about  him  that  suggested  a  laughing  Romeo;  and, 
in  response,  the  cashier  was  evidently  not  unwilling 


218 


WOMEN 


to  play  a  flippant  Juliet.  She  tossed  her  head  at 
him,  tapped  his  cheek  with  a  pencil,  chattering 
eagerly;  she  blushed,  laughed,  and  at  last  looked 
yearningly  after  him  as  he  went  away.  Mr.  Dodge 
also  looked;  for  the  young  man  was  Dolling,  once 
Mrs.  Leslie  Braithwaite’s  chauffeur. 

“Fine  little  bit  of  comedy,  that,”  the  junior 
member  of  Mr.  Dodge’s  firm  remarked,  across 
their  small  table.  “Talked  her  into  giving  him 
credit  for  his  lunch.  She’ll  have  to  make  it  up  out 
of  her  own  pocket  until  he  pays  her.  Of  course,  he’s 
done  it  before,  and  she  knows  him.  Characteristic 
of  that  fellow; — he’s  a  great  hand  to  put  it  over 
with  the  girls!” 

“Do  you  know  him,  Williams?”  Mr.  Dodge  asked, 
a  little  interested. 

“Know  him?  Lord,  yes!  He  was  in  my  class 
at  college  till  he  got  fired  in  sophomore  year.  Every 
now  and  then  he  comes  to  me  and  I  have  to  stake 
him.  He’s  a  reporter  just  now;  but  it’s  always  the 
same — whether  he’s  working  or  not,  he  never  has 
any  money.  He  can  do  anything:  act,  sing,  break 
horses,  drive  an  airplane,  any  kind  of  newspaper 
work — ^publishes  poetry  in  the  papers  sometimes,  and 


“DOLLING” 


219 


he’s  not  such  a  bad  poet,  either,  at  that.  But  he’s 
just  one  of  these  natural-born  drifters — too  good 
looking  and  too  restless.  He  never  holds  a  job  more 
than  a  couple  of  months.” 

“I  suppose  not,”  Mr.  Dodge  said,  absently. 
suppose  he’s  tried  a  good  many.” 

“Rather!”  Williams  exclaimed.  “I’ve  got  him 
I  don’t  know  how  many,  myself.  The  last  time  I  did 
he  was  pretty  well  down  and  out,  and  the  best  I 
could  get  for  him  was  a  chauffeur’s  job  for  a  little 
cuss  I  happened  to  know  in  the  brass  trade — ^Braith- 
waite.  Lives  out  your  way  somewhere,  I  think. 
O’Boyle  took  it  all  right;  it  was  chauff  or  starve!” 

“I  beg  your  pardon.  Who  took  what?” 

“O’Boyle,”  said  Williams.  “Charlie  O’Boyle,  the 
man  we’re  talking  about — the  chap  that  was  just 
conning  the  cashier  yonder.  I  was  telling  you  he 
took  a  job  as  chauffeur  for  a  family  out  your  way 
in  the  suburbs.” 

“Yes,  I  understood,”  Mr.  Dodge  returned,  with 
more  gravity  than  Williams  expected  as  a  tribute 
to  this  casual  narrative.  “You  said  this  O’Boyle 
became  a  chauffeur  to  some  people  named  Braith- 
waite  and  that  you  obtained  the  position  for  him.  I 


220 


WOMEN 


merely  wondered — I  suppose  when  you  recommended 
this  O’Boyle  to  Mr.  Braithwaite  you — ah — you 
mentioned  his  name?  I  mean  to  say:  ypu  intro¬ 
duced  O’Boyle  as  O’Boyle.” 

“Well,  naturally,”  Williams  replie'd,  surprised 
and  a  little  nettled.  “Why  wouldn’t  I?  ^»»w^j^n’t 
expect  people  to  take  on  a  man  for  a  family  job  like 
that  and  not  tell  ’em  his  name,  would  I?  I  don’t 
see  what  you - ” 

“Nothing,”  Mr.  Dodge  said,  hurriedly.  “Noth¬ 
ing  at  all.  It  was  a  ridiculous  question.  My  mind 
was  wandering  to  other  things,  or  I  shouldn’t  have 
asked  it.  We’d  better  get  down  to  business,  I  sup¬ 
pose.” 

But  that  was  something  his  wandering  mind  re¬ 
fused  to  do ;  nor  would  it  under  any  consideration  or 
pressure  “get  down  to  business”  during  the  rest  of 
that  afternoon.  He  went  home  early,  and,  walking 
from  his  suburban  station  in  the  first  twilight  of  a 
gray  but  rainless  November  day,  arrived  at  his 
own  gate  just  as  the  Braithwaites’  closed  car  drew 
up  at  the  curb  before  the  next  house. 

An  elderly  negro  chauffeur  climbed  down  rustily 
from  his  seat  at  the  wheel  and  opened  the  shining 
door;  Mrs.  Braithwaite  stepped  gracefully  down, 


“DOLLING” 


mi 

and,  with  her  lovely  saint’s  face  uplifted  above  dark 
furs,  she  crossed  the  pavement,  entered  the  low  iron 
gateway,  and  walked  up  the  wide  stone  path  that 
led  through  the  lawn  to  the  house.  On  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street  a  group  of  impressed  women  stopped 
to  stare,  grateful  for  the  favouring  chance  that  gave 
them  this  glimpse  of  the  great  lady. 

Mr.  Braithwaite  descended  from  the  car  and  fol¬ 
lowed  his  wife  toward  the  house.  He  did  not  over¬ 
take  her  and  walk  beside  her;  but  his  insignificant 
legs  beneath  his  overcoat  kept  his  small  feet  moving 
in  neat  short  steps  a  little  way  behind  her. 

Meanwhile,  the  pausing  neighbour  gazed  at  them 
and  his  open  mouth  showed  how  he  pondered.  It 
was  not  upon  this  strange  woman,  a  little  of  whose 
strangeness  had  so  lately  been  revealed  to  him,  that 
he  pondered  most,  nor  about  her  that  he  most  pro¬ 
foundly  wondered.  For,  strange  as  the  woman 
seemed  to  him,  far  stranger  seemed  the  little  creature 

‘X 

pattering  so  faithfully  behind  her  up.  the  walk. 

In  so  helpless  a  fidelity  Mr.  Dodge  felt  something 
touching;  and  perhaps,  too,  he  felt  that  men  must 
keep  men’s  secrets.  At  all  events,  he  made  a  high 
resolve.  It  would  be  hard  on  Mrs.  Dodge,  even 
unfair  to  her;  but  then  and  there  he  made  up  his 


222  WOMEN 

mind  that  for  the  sake  of  Mrs.  Leslie  Braith waiters 
husband  he  would  never  tell  anybody — and  of  all 
the  world  he  would  never  tell  Mrs.  Dodge — what  he 
had  learned  that  day  about  Mrs,  Leslie  Braithwaite’s 
husband’s  loyalty. 


XVIII 

lilt’s  friend  ADA 


INDOORS  Mr.  Dodge  too  quickly  found  other 
matter  to  occupy  his  mind.  Mrs.  Dodge 
hurried  down  the  stairs  to  set  before  him  an 
account  of  a  new  phase  in  Lily’s  present  romance, 
and  they  began  their  daily  discussion  of  their  daugh¬ 
ter’s  beglamoured  condition.  In  a  way  this  was  a 
strange  thing  for  them  to  do,  because,  like  many 
other  fathers  and  mothers  in  such  parental  mazes, 
they  realized  that  they  struggled  with  a  mystery 
beyond  their  comprehension.  Lily’s  condition  was 
something  about  which  they  really  knew  nothing, 
and  least  of  all  did  they  guess  what  part  her  dearest 
girl-friend  had  in  it. 

Lily  had  formed  with  the  sturdy  Ada  Corey  one 
of  those  friendships  that  sometimes  suggest  to  ob¬ 
servers  an  unworthy  but  persistent  thought  upon  the 
profundity  of  girlish  vanity.  So  often  is  a  beautiful 
girl’s  best  girl-friend  the  precise  companion  piece  to 
set  off  most  abundantly  the  charms  of  the  beauty,  or, 

223 


£24 


WOMEN 


if  both  girls  of  a  pair  be  well-favoured,  so  frequently 
is  one  dark  and  the  other  fair,  and  each  the  best 
obtainable  background  for  the  other,  that  the  specta¬ 
tor  is  almost  forced  to  suppose  many  such  intimacies 
to  be  deliberately  founded  upon  a  pictorial  basis. 

But  this  is  not  to  say  that  these  decorative  elections 
to  friendship  are  unaccompanied  by  genuine  fond¬ 
ness;  and  although  Lily  Dodge  found  her  background 
in  the  more  substantial  Ada,  she  found  also  something 
to  lean  upon  and  cling  to  and  admire.  For  Lily 
was  one  of  those  girls  we  call  ethereal,  because  they 
do  not  seem  intended  to  remain  long  in  a  world 
their  etherealness  makes  appear  gross.  They  usually 
do  remain  as  long  as  other  people  do,  yet  their 
seeming  almost  poised  for  a  winging  departure  brings 
them  indulgences  and  cherishings  not  shown  to  that 
stouter,  self-reliant  type  to  which  Ada  Corey  was 
thought  to  belong. 

Late  on  that  same  gray  but  rainless  November 
afternoon,  Ada,  herself,  spoke  of  this  elaborate 
difference  between  them.  “I  don’t  see  why  you 
worry,  Lily,”  she  said.  ‘T  believe  you  could  get 
away  with  anything!  You’re  the  kind  that  can.” 

“Oh,  not  protested, in  a  wailing  whisper. 

No  one  was  near  them;  but  in  her  trouble  she  seemed 


LILY’S  FRIEND  ADA 


225 


to  fear  the  garrulity  of  even  the  old  forest  trees  of 
the  park  through  which  the  two  were  taking  an 
autumnal  stroll.  “Nobody  in  the  world  could  get 
out  of  such  a  miserable  state  of  things  as  I’ve  got 
myself  into  now,  Ada.” 

But  this  was  by  no  means  Miss  Corey’s  first  ex¬ 
perience  of  her  friend’s  confidences  of  despair.  “I 
wouldn’t  bother  about  it  at  all,  if  I  were  you,  Lily,” 
she  said,  cheerfully.  “I  wouldn’t  give  it  a  thought.” 

“You  wouldn’t?”  Lily  cried,  feebly,  and  her  in¬ 
credulity  was  further  expressed  by  her  feet,  whi^ 
refused  to  bear  her  onward  in  so  amazed  a  condition. 
She  halted,  facing  her  companion  in  a  stricken 
manner.  “You  wouldn’t  give  it  a  thought?  When 
I’ve  just  told  you  that  this  time  it’s  three! 

“No,”  Ada  returned,  stoutly.  “I  wouldn’t.  If 
I  were  you,  I  wouldn’t.  I  wouldn’t  even  if  it  were 
four!” 

Lily  moaned,  and  in  a  hopeless  appeal  for  a  higher 
witness  to  such  folly,  cast  her  eyes  to  heaven — or 
at  least  to  as  much  of  the  dimming  sky  as  roofed 
over  the  tattered  brown  foliage  above  her.  “You 
wouldn’t  give  it  a  thought!  Not  even  if  there  were 
four  of  ’em.”  Then,  as  the  woodland  spot  where 
they  had  stopped  was  somewhat  secluded  and  apart 


226 


WOMEN 


from  the  main-travelled  roads  of  the  park,  Lily  felt 
at  liberty  to  lean  against  a  tree  and  apply  a  hand 
to  her  forehead  in  an  excellent  gesture  of  anguish. 
“I’m  a  goner  this  time,  Ada,”  she  murmured.  “I’m 
a  goner !  ” 

“You  aren’t  anything  of  the  kind,”  Miss  Corey 
assured  her.  “I  tell  '^^ou  it’s  not  worth  bothering 
about.” 

“Oh!”  Lily  uttered  a  sound  of  indignation, 
dropped  the  dramatic  little  hand,  and  spoke  sharply. 
“You  stand  there,  Ada  Corey,  and  tell  me  that  if 
such  a  thing  happened  to  you,  you  wouldn’t  give  it  a 
thought?” 

“I  didn’t  say  that.” 

“You  did!  You  just  said - ” 

“No;  I  said  if  I  were  yow,”  Ada  explained.  “A 
thing  like  this  wouldn’t  happen  to  me.” 

“Why  wouldn’t  it?  It  might  happen  to  any¬ 
body,”  Lily  returned,  quickly.  “Suppose  it  did 
happen  to  you?  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  if 
three  separate,  individual  men  all  pretty  nearly  con¬ 
sidered  themselves  practically  almost  engaged  to  be 
married  to  you  at  the  same  time,  you  wouldn’t  give 
it  a  thought?  You  wouldn’t  bother  about  it  at  aZZ.^” 

“I  said  I  wouldn’t  if  I  were  ^ow,”  Ada  insisted. 


LILY’S  FRIEND  ADA 


“Why  wouldn’t  you?” 

“For  just  the  reason  I  told  you.  Because  you’re 
the  kind  that  can  get  away  with  anything.” 

“But  I  can’t!”  Lily  cried.  “I’m  always  in  some 
sort  of  miserable  mess  or  other.” 

«« 

“Yes,  pretty  often,”  her  friend  assented.  “But 
it’s  always  a  new  one,  and  nobody  ever  does  anything 
about  the  old  one,  so  why  should  you  care?  You’ll 
write  one  of  these  three  boys  a  little  weepy  note,  and 
you’ll  have  a  little  weepy  scene  with  another,  and 
that’ll  leave  only  the  one  you  like  the  best,  and - ” 

“But  I  don’t,”  Lily  interrupted,  piteously.  “I 
don’t  absolutely  know  I  like  him  as  much  as  I  thought 
I  did,  either.” 

“  What !  ”  Ada  cried.  “Not  even  him?  ” 

“How  can  anybody  ever  be  absolutely  certain?  I 
mean  certain  enough  to  get  married.  You  know 
it’s  a  thing  you’ve  got  to  look  at  pretty  seriously, 
Ada — ^getting  actually  married.” 

But  for  the  moment  Ada  did  not  seem  to  be  sym¬ 
pathetic; — she  was  staring  wide-eyed  at  her  friend. 
“So  you’re  going  to  wriggle  out  of  it  with  all  three 
of  them.” 

“But  maybe  I  can’t,”  Lily  moaned.  “Suppose 
they  insisted?  Suppose  they  just  wouldn’t  let  me?” 


228  WOMEN 

“Has  there  ever  been  anything  anybody  wouldn’t 
let  you  do?” 

Lily  moaned  again.  “You  mean  I’m  spoiled. 
You  mean  people  let  me  make  ’em  miserable.  Oh, 
it’s  true,  Ada!  I  do  wish  I  could  be  more  like  you.” 

“Like  me? ”  Ada  laughed  shortly.  “  You  wouldn’t 
for  the  world.” 

“Yes,  I  would.”  Lily  took  her  friend’s  hand  in 
her  own.  “I’d  give  anything  in  the  world  to  be  like 
you.  You  don’t  know  what  a  trouble  I  am  to  my 
mother  and  father!  They’re  always  in  some  kind 
of  stew  or  other  over  me,  and  I  can’t  help  it,  because 
I’m  always  getting  myself  into  such  fearful  messes. 
You  never  trouble  your  family;  you’re  always  a 
comfort  to  ’em.  You  aren’t  romantic  and  imagina¬ 
tive  and  sentimental  and  fly-off-the-handle,  the  way 
I  am.  You’re  steady  and  reliable,  and  people  always 
know  exactly  where  to  find  you.” 

But  upon  this,  Ada  looked  puzzled.  *‘Is  that  so?  ” 
she  asked,  gravely.  “Is  that  how  I  seem  to  you, 
Lily?” 

“ To  me?  Good  heavens !  Don’t  you  know  that’s 
the  way  everybody  thinks  of  you?  Everybody 
knows  you’re  dependable; — ^you’re  what  they  call 


LILY’S  FRIEND  ADA 


229 


‘so  satisfactory,’  Ada.  Your  family  and  everybody 
else  know  you’ll  never  do  anything  reckless  or  sus¬ 
ceptible  or  dreamy.  Nobody  on  earth  knows  what 
ril  do,  because  I  don’t  myself.  Just  hoh  at  the 
difference  between  us!” 

With  that,  as  if  the  bodily  contrast  of  the  two  ex¬ 
pressed  the  contrast  in  character  she  had  in  mind, 
Lily  extended  her  arms  sidewise  from  her  in  an 
emotional  gesture  inviting  an  inspection  of  herself 
foredoomed  to  be  damning;  then  pointed  dramati¬ 
cally  at  Ada.  “Just  look  at  you  and  then  look  at 
me,”  she  cried.  “See  what  a  terrible  difference  it 
is!” 

She  dropped  her  arms  to  her  sides,  submitting  her 
case  to  an  invisible  jury,  who  might  well  have  re¬ 
turned  a  verdict  that  at  least  the  outward  difference 
was  pleasant  rather  than  terrible.  In  the  twilight 
beneath  the  trees  the  fair-haired  and  ethereal  Lily, 
in  her  slim  gray  dress,  seemed  to  be'  made  of  a  few 
wisps  of  mist  and  a  little  gold.  About  her  was  a 
plaintive  grace,  not  a  quality  of  her  dark-eyed  and 
more  substantial  companion;  yet  both  girls  were 
comely;  both  were  of  the  peach-bloom  age  that 
follows  the  awkward  years;  each  had  a  grace  of  her 


230 


WOMEN 


own;  and  neither  had  cause  to  be  disturbed  by  any¬ 
thing  wherein  she  was  unlike  the  other.  Yet,  as  it 
happened,  both  were  so  disturbed. 

Ada’s  gravity  had  increased.  “You’re  all  wrong 
about  it,  Lily,”  she  said.  “I’d  give  anything  in  the 
world  to  be  like  you.” 

“What!”  Lily  cried.  “You  wouldn’t!  Why?” 

“Because  of  what  I  said.  You  can  get  away  with 
anything,  and  people  expect  it.  But  if  I  ever  did 
anything  queer  it  would  upset  everybody.  There’d 
be  no  end  to  it.” 

“But  you  never  Lily  almost  shouted. 

“Won’t  I?  ”  Ada  returned,  her  gravity  not  relaxing. 
“What  makes  you  so  sure?” 

“Why,  you  simply  couldn’t!  My  life  is  just  one 
long  eternal  succession  of  queernesses.  I  never  do 
anything  rational;  I  don’t  seem  to  know  how;  but 
you’re  never  anything  but  sensible,  Ada.  You’ll 
fall  in  love  sensibly  some  day — not  like  me,  but  with 
just  one  man  at  a  time — and  he’ll  be  exactly  the 
person  your  family’ll  think  you  ought  to  be  in  love 
with.  And  you’ll  have  a  nice,  comfortable  wedding, 
without  any  of  the  ushers  misbehaving  because  you 
wouldn’t  marry  him  instead; — and  then  you’ll  bring 
up  a  large  family  to  go  to  church  every  Sunday 


LILY’S  FRIEND  ADA 


231 


and  take  an  interest  in  missionary  work  and  every¬ 
thing.  Don’t  you  see  how  much  I  ought  to  be  like 
that,  and  how  much  you  really  are  that?  Don’t 
you,  Ada?” 

Ada  shook  her  head  slowly.  ‘‘It  doesn’t  quite 
seem  so,”  she  said.  Then,  beginning  to  stroll  onward, 
continuing  their  walk,  she  looked  even  more  serious 
than  before,  and  inquired:  “What  are  you  going  to 
wear  to-morrow  night?” 

Lines  almost  tragic  appeared  upon  Lily’s  forehead, 
and  her  previously  mentioned  troubles  seemed  of 
light  account  compared  to  this  one.  “Oh,  dear!” 
she  wailed.  “That’s  another  thing  that’s  been  on 
my  mind  all  day.  I  haven’t  the  least  idea.  What 
would  you?” 

She  was  still  hopelessly  preoccupied  with  the  prob¬ 
lem  when  she  reached  home,  after  parting  with  Ada 
at  the  park  gates;  and  in  her  own  pretty  room  she 
went  to  one  of  her  two  clothes’-closets  even  before 
she  went  to  a  mirror.  Frowning,  she  looked  over  her 
party  dresses. 

The  slim,  tender-coloured  fabrics,  charming  even 
though  unoccupied,  hung  weightlessly  upon  small, 
shoulderlike  shapes  of  nickeled  wire;  and  as  she 
restlessly  slid  the  hangers  to  and  fro  along  the  groved 


232 


WOMEN 


central  rail  that  held  them,  she  produced  a  delicate 
swish  and  flutter  among  the  silks  and  chiffons  before 
her,  so  that  they  were  like  a  little  pageant  of  pretty 
ghosts  of  the  dances  to  which  their  young  mistress 
had  worn  them.  Lily  approved  of  none  of  them, 
however;  and,  hearing  her  mother’s  firm  step  ap¬ 
proaching  the  open  door  of  the  room,  behind  her,  she 
said,  desperately,  without  turning,  “I  haven’t  got  a 
thing.  Mamma;  I  haven’t  got  a  single  thing!” 

Mrs.  Dodge,  that  solid  matron,  so  inexplicably 
unlike  her  daughter,  came  into  the  room  breathing 
audibly  after  an  unusually  hurried  ascent  of  the 
stairs.  “Lily,”  she  said,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  still 
controls  an  impending  emotion,  “Lily,  you  must 
never  do  this  to  me  again.  I  can’t  stand  it.” 

“Do  what  to  you  again?”  Lily  inquired,  absently, 
not  turning  from  her  inspection.  “I  haven’t  got  a 
thing  I  could  wear  to-morrow  night.  Mamma. 
Absolutely,  I  don’t  see  how  I  can  go  unless - ” 

“LiZi//”  Mrs.  Dodge  exclaimed  in  a  tone  so  elo¬ 
quently  vehement  as  to  command  a  part  of  her 
daughter’s  attention.  “Listen  to  me!” 

Lily  half  turned,  holding  forth  for  exhibition  a 
dress  she  had  removed  from  its  hanger.  “What’s 
the  matter.  Mamma?  This  pale  blue  chiffon  is 


LILY’S  FRIEND  ADA 


233 


absolutely  the  only  thing  I  haven’t  worn  so  often 
I  just  couldn’t  face  anybody  in  again;  but  it  never 
was  a  becoming - ” 

“Lily,  put  down  that  dress  and  listen  to  me!” 

“I’m  sure  it  won’t  do,”  the  daughter  said,  regret¬ 
fully;  but  she  obeyed  and  hung  the  dress  over  the 
back  of  a  chair.  Then  she  turned  to  her  dressing- 
table  mirror  and  began  to  remove  her  small  hat. 
“Are  you  upset  or  anything,  Mamma.^” 

“Upset.?  No!  I’m  indignant,”  Mrs.  Dodge  ex¬ 
plained,  fiercely.  “If  you  ever  do  such  a  thing  to 
me  again - ” 

“What?  Why,  I  haven’t  even  seen  you  since 
lunch  time.  Mamma.  How  could  I  have  been  doing 
anything  to  you  when  I  wasn’t  anywhere  around  to 
do  it?” 

“You  know  well  enough  what  you  did  to  me! 
You  broke  three  separate  engagements  with  three 
separate - ” 

But  Lily’s  light  laughter  interrupted.  “Oh,  did 
the  poor  things  call  up?”  she  asked,  and  seemed  to  be 
pleasantly  surprised.  “Well,  my  not  being  here 
might  be  doing  something  to  them,  maybe,”  she 
added,  refiectively; — “but  I  don’t  see  how  it  was 
doing  anything  to  you,  Mamma.” 


S34 


WOMEN 


“You  don’t?  You  break  three  separate  engage¬ 
ments  without  a  word,  and  leave  me  here  to  explain 
it;  and  then  you  say  that  wasn’t  doing  anything  to 
me!” 

“But  I  didn’t  leave  you  to  do  it.  I  didn’t  even 
know  you  were  going  to  be  home  this  afternoon.  I 
just  thought  maybe  they’d  call  up  and  find  I  was  out, 
and  that’d  be  the  end  of  it.  What  in  the  world  did 
you  go  to  the  telephone /or.  Mamma?” 

“Because  two  of  them  asked  for  me.” 

“Did  they?  What  for?” 

“To  ask  where  you  toero,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said,  ex¬ 
plosively.  “Each  of  ’em  kept  me  about  fifteen 
minutes.” 

“That  was  very  inconsiderate,”  Lily  observed. 
“Especially  as  I  hadn’t  absolutely  promised  either 
of  ’em  I’d  go.  I  only  said  to  call  up  about  three  and 
'probably  I  would.  I  don’t  think  they  ought  to  have 
kept  you  so - ” 

“That  isn’t  what  I’m  complaining  of,”  her  mother 
interrupted,  grimly.  “It  was  disagreeable,  especially 
as  I  was  unable  to  give  either  of  them  any  informa¬ 
tion  and  they  both  seemed  to  think  I  could  if  they 
kept  at  me  long  enough!  It  was  trying,  but  it  was 
bearable.  What  I  refuse  to  have  happen  again. 


LILY’S  FRIEND  ADA  235 

though,  is  what  has  been  happening  all  the  rest  of 
the  afternoon.” 

Lily  proved  herself  strangely  able  to  divine  her 
mother’s  meaning  without  further  explanation.  Pink 
at  once  became  noticeable  upon  her  cheeks.  “Oh, 
goodness !  ”  she  said.  “Price  didn’t  come  in,  did  he.^  ” 

“For  two  and  one-half  hours,”  Mrs.  Dodge  replied, 
slowly  and  harshly.  “For  that  length  of  time  this 
afternoon  I  have  been  favoured  with  the  society  and 
conversation — the  continuous  conversation,  I  may 
say — of  Mr.  Price  Gleason.  I  am  strong  enough  to 
bear  certain  things,  but  not  strong  enough  to  bear 
certain  other  things,  and  I  want  to  tell  you  that  this 
is  something  you  must  never  do  to  me  again.” 

Lily  sank  into  a  chair,  staring  widely.  “Oh, 
goodness!”  she  said.  “When  did  he  go?” 

“Not  until  about  five  minutes  before  you  came  in.” 

“What  did  he  say?” 

“What  didn’t  he?”  Mrs.  Dodge  returned.  “He 
had  time  enough!” 

Upon  this  Lily’s  expression,  grown  grave,  became 
tenderly  compassionate.  “Was  he — was  he  terribly 
hurt  with  me.  Mamma?” 

“Well,  I  shouldn’t  say  so — ^no.  No,  I  don’t  think 
he  was  just  what  one  might  call  stricken.  At  first 


S36 


WOMEN 


he  seemed  rather  depressed — but  not  for  long.  I 
don’t  think  that  young  man  will  ever  be  much  de¬ 
pressed  about  anything  while  he  has  a  listener.  All 
he  asks  of  life  is  an  audience.” 

“He  talks  beautifully,”  Lily  said,  with  the  dreamy 
look  her  mother  knew  so  well.  “Don’t  you  think 
he  does.  Mamma?  What  did  he  talk  about?” 

“About  nothing,”  Mrs.  Dodge  answered  cruelly. 
“I  mean,  of  course,  about  himself.” 

“Mamma!”  Lily  cried,  quickly,  and  her  sensitive 
face  showed  the  pain  she  felt.  “That  isn’t  kind, 
and  it  isn’t  fair!” 

“Isn’t  it?  I  never  in  my  life  listened  to  such  a 
conceited  and  unveracious  rigmarole  as  that  young 
man  favoured  me  with  this  afternoon.  I  did  every¬ 
thing  a  Christian  woman  could  to  show  him  I  wanted 
him  to  go,  but  he  never  stopped.  You  canH  interrupt 
him  when  he’s  wound  up  like  that,  and  he’s  always 
wound  up.  He  makes  an  oration  of  it;  he  stands  up, 
gestures  like  an  actor,  and  walks  around  and  up 
and  down  when  he  tells  you  how  he’s  done  all  the 
great  things  he  almost  believes  in  himself  when  he’s 
talking  about  ’em.  I  never  knew  such  a  story-teller 
in  my  life!” 

“Mamma!” 


LILY’S  FRIEND  ADA 


237 


“I  never  did,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said.  “He  told  me 
he’d  killed  three  men  in  Mexico.” 

“But,  Mamma,  it’s  true!  He  did!  He  was 
prospecting  for  silver  mines  and  all  sorts  of  things  in 
Mexico.” 

“I  don’t  believe  a  word  of  it,  Lily; — it  sounded 
much  too  much  like  ‘adventure  stories.’  I  don’t  think 
he  did  it;  I  think  he  read  it.  He  said  he  killed  those 
three  men  because  they  tried  to  ‘jump  his  claim,’ 
while  he  was  away  on  a  visit  to  his  friend,  the  Presi¬ 
dent  of  Mexico,  and  that  afterward  the  President 
made  him  a  general  in  the  Mexican  Army,  and  he 
fought  in  seven  battles  and  was  wounded  twelve 
times.  That  was  five  years  ago,  so  he  must  have  been 
a  general  when  he  was  about  nineteen.  In  all  my  life 
I  never  heard - ” 

“If  you  please.  Mamma!”  Lily  interrupted. 
“I’d  rather  not  hear  you  accuse  him  of  such  things. 
I  prefer - ” 

“Good  gracious!”  Mrs.  Dodge  exclaimed.  “I 
can’t  see  why  you’re  so  sensitive  about  him  when  you 
deliberately  broke  an  engagement  with  h  m  this 
very  afternoon  without  a  word  of  explanation.” 

“That’s  an  entirely  different  matter,”  Lily  said, 
primly.  “I  had  to  do  that.” 


238 


WOMEN 


“Why  did  you?” 

“Because  I  couldn’t  go  with  one  of  ’em  without 
hurting  both  the  others  terribly.” 

“But  why  didn’t  you  make  some  excuse?” 

“Because  I  couldn’t  think  of  anything  I  was  sure 
would  be  satisfactory,  or  that  they  mightn’t  find 
out,”  Lily  explained,  seriously;  and  she  added,  “I 
had  to  put  that  ojf.” 

“Until  when?” 

“Until  I  get  time  to  think  it  out.  Mamma.  So 
you  see  it  didn’t  mean  I  care  any  less  for  Price.  It 
only  meant  I  was  in  a  perplexing  position.”  She 
rose,  facing  her  mother  gravely.  “I  like  him  much 
better  than  the  others.  Mamma,  and  I  don’t  think 
it’s  considerate  of  you  to  speak  so  unkindly  of  him.” 
Here  Lily’s  lip  began  to  tremble  a  little.  “I  think 
he  talks  wonderfully,  and  it’s  every  word  true  about 
MexicOj  and  I  think  you  and  Papa  ought  to  respect 
my  feeling  for  him.” 

“Your  father?”  Mrs.  Dodge  cried.  “You  know 
perfectly  well  what  your  father  thinks  of  him.” 

But  Lily  ignored  this  interpolation,  and  continued, 
“It  seems  to  me  it  was  very  unkind  of  you  to  sit 
there  just  coldly  criticizing  him  in  your  mind  all 


LILY’S  FRIEND  ADA 


239 


afternoon  when  he  was  doing  his  best  to  entertain 
you.  He  meant  nothing  except  kindness  to  yoUy  and 
you  were  sitting  there  all  the  time  coldly  crit - ” 

“Yes,  I  was,”  her  mother  interrupted.  “I  was 
certainly  sitting  there!  But  I  wasn’t  coldly  criticiz¬ 
ing  him  in  my  mind;  you’re  wrong  about  that.  After 
two  hours  of  it,  my  mental  criticism  was  getting 
pretty  warm,  Lily.  In  fact,  I  think  it  would  have 
scorched  me  if  I  hadn’t  finally  got  rid  of  him.” 

“Got  rid  of  him.^^”  Lily  repeated,  slowly. 

“Mamma — you — ^you  weren’t - ”  She  left  the 

sentence  eloquently  unfinished. 

“Certainly  I  wasn’t  rude  to  him,”  Mrs.  Dodge 
returned,  sharply.  “I  showed  him  the  patience  of 
an  angel  as  long  as  I  could,  and  then  I  merely  men¬ 
tioned  something  I  wish  I’d  thought  of  long  before; 
and  he  picked  up  his  plush  hat  and  yellow  gloves  and 
went  home.” 

“That’s  as  unjust  as  everything  else  you  say  of 
him.  It  isn’t  plush;  it’s  velours,”  Lily  said.  Then 
she  asked  ominously:  “Mamma,  what  was  it  you 
merely  mentioned.^” 

“I  told  him  it  was  getting  to  be  about  your  father’s 
usual  time  of  returning  for  dinner;  that  was  all.” 


240 


WOMEN 


Lily  cried.  ‘‘Wben  you  knew  that  Papa 
wrote  him  to  stop  coming  here,  and  Price  never  does 
come  any  more  when  Papa’s  here.” 

“Yes,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said,  grimly.  “ ‘I’ll  admit  he’s 
that  sensitive!  Your  father’s  letter  was  courteous — 
but  clear.” 

“Courteous!”  Lily  echoed,  and  she  became 
tragically  rigid.  She  breathed  visibly;  her  eyes 
were  luminous  with  suffering  and  indignation;  her 
sweet  and  searching  little  silver  carillon  of  a  voice 
became  tremulous  and  loud.  “It  was  unspeakable! 
I  never  knew  Papa  had  such  brutality  in  him.  And 
you — ^I  thought  you  were  my  friend.  Mamma;  but 
now  I  see  what  you  did  this  afternoon!  Price  told 
you  the  story  of  his  life  because  he  was  defending 
himself;  he  was  trying  to  make  you  understand  him. 
And  all  the  while  he  was  trying  to,  you  sat  there 
coldly  critical,  and  then  insulted  him  by  telling  him 
Papa  might  come  in.  You  did.  Mamma!  You 
did!  That’s  just  what  it  amounted  to.” 

“You  consider  it’s  an  insult  to  a  young  man  to 
tell  him  that  your  father  may  be  arriving  home 
presently?” 

“Under  the  circumstances,”  Lily  returned,  bitterly, 
and  quite  correctly,  “it  certainly  was  a  deadly  insult. 


LILY’S  FRIEND  ADA 


£41 


And  you  say  he  isn’t  sensitive!  Nobody  under¬ 
stands  how  sensitive  he  is!  And  to  think  he  has  to 
undergo  such  humiliations  for  me — all  for  me!” 
With  that,  becoming  every  moment  more  emotion¬ 
ally  dramatic,  Lily  turned  to  a  silver-framed  photo¬ 
graph  upon  her  desk,  and  addressed  it,  extending 
her  arms  to  it  in  piteous  appeal.  “Oh!”  she  cried, 
“when  I  think  of  all  you  have  to  go  through  for  my 
sake — for  me - ” 

“Lily!”  her  mother  shouted.  “Stop  it!  Stop  that 
nonsense  this  instant.  Good  heavens!  your  father 
and  I  both  thought  you  were  getting  over  it.  We 
thought  you’d  begun  to  see  the  truth  about  Price 
Gleason  for  yourself.  What  on  earth  has  started 
you  all  up  again 

This  was  a  singular  question  for  Mrs.  Dodge  to 
be  asking,  since  she  herself  was  the  origin  of  the  re-  » 
newal  she  thus  lamented.  Lily  had  indeed  begim 
to  question  her  own  feeling  for  the  romantic  Gleason, 
as  she  had  confessed  to  Ada  within  that  very  hour. 
Moreover,  there  had  crept  upon  her  lately  some  faint 
and  secret  little  shadows  of  doubt  in  regard  to  the 
tale  of  Mexican  slaughter  and  other  tremendous 
narratives  included  by  this  new  Othello  as  elements 
of  his  wooing.  Left  to  herself,  Lily  might  have  found 


242 


WOMEN 


her  doubt  increasing;  but  her  mother  had  changed 
all  that  in  a  few  minutes. 

Mrs.  Dodge  believed  she  had  been  accurately  de¬ 
scribing  an  unpleasantly  absurd  and  erratic  young 
egoist  who  had  trespassed  upon  her  time,  her  patience, 
and  her  credulity  until  she  at  last  thought  of  a  fortu¬ 
nate  device  to  get  rid  of  him;  but  this  was  not  the 
picture  she  had  painted  upon  her  daughter’s  mind. 
What  Mi’S.  Dodge  really  made  Lily  see  was  a  darkly 
handsome  poet  adventurer,  eloquently  telling  the 
story  of  his  life,  not  to  a  stirred  Desdemona  such  as 
she  herself  had  been,  but  to  a  cynical  matron  who  sat 
in  frosty  judgment,  disbelieving  him,  and  then  put 
humiliation  upon  him.  Lily’s  pale  doubts  of  him 
vanished;  Mrs.  Dodge  had  made  her  his  champion, 
with  all  ardours  renewed. 

Moreover,  no  one  in  the  throes  of  a  championing 
emotion  likes  to  be  asked,  “What  on  earth  has  started 
you  all  up  again?”  Perhaps  Lily  resented  this  most 
of  all,  for  the  expression  taken  by  her  resentment  was 
the  one  best  calculated  to  dismay  the  questioner. 
“I’m  not  precisely  ‘started  up^  again,  if  you  please. 
Mamma,”  she  said,  suddenly  icy,  as  she  turned  from 
the  photograph.  “It  is  time  you  and  Papa  both  un¬ 
derstood  clearly.  I  have  never  stopped  caring  for 


LILY’S  FRIEND  ADA 


243 


Price.  I  have  never  cared  for  any  one  else.”  And, 
having  heard  herself  say  it,  she  straightway  be¬ 
lieved  it. 

Mrs.  Dodge  uttered  a  dismal  cry.  “Oh,  mur¬ 
der!”  she  said.  “We’ve  got  it  all  to  go  through 
again  I  ” 

“You  cannot  change  me,”  Lily  informed  her. 
“Nothing  you  could  possibly  say  will  ever  change 
me. 

“But  you  know  what  he  is!”  Mrs.  Dodge  wailed, 
despairingly.  “Your  own  father  says  there  isn’t  a 
word  of  truth  in  his  whole  body,  and  besides  that, 
didn’t  he  inherit  four  thousand  dollars  from  his  great- 
aunt  and  spend  almost  every  cent  of  it  the  day  after 
he  got  it  on  an  automobile,  and  then  smash  the  auto¬ 
mobile  to  pieces  after  a  very  wild  party?  You 
know  he  did,  Lily!  He’s  irresponsible  and  he’s 
dissipated,  too;  everybody  knows  he  is;  and  that’s 
why  Mr.  Corey  didn’t  want  him  to  come  to  their 
house  any  more  than  your  father  wants  him  to 
come  to  ours.  He  was  interested  in  Ada  Corey  be¬ 
fore  he  began  to  come  to  see  you,  Lily.” 

“I  know  all  about  it,”  Lily  said  with  dignity. 
“He  told  me,  of  course,  that  he’d  had  a  friendship 
with  Ada;  and  so  did  she.  But  Mr.  Corey  behaved 


244 


WOMEN 


so  outrageously  to  him,  they  both  thought  it  would 
be  better  to  give  it  up.” 

“Ada’s  father  and  mother  saw  what  that  young 
man  is,  Lily,”  Mrs.  Dodge  said,  gravely.  “They 
told  Ada  it  was  their  wish  that  she  shouldn’t  receive 
him  or  encourage  him  in  any  way;  and  she  listened 
to  them  and  saw  that  they  were  right,  and  she  obeyed 
them,  Lily.” 

“Yes,”  said  Lily; — “she’s  that  sort  of  a  girl.  I’m 
not.  Mamma.” 

Mrs.  Dodge’s  eyes  suddenly  filled  with  tears. 
“I  know  you’re  not,”  she  said,  simply,  out  of  much 
experience. 

But  at  this  Lily  threw  her  arms  about  her. 
‘Mamma!”  she  cried.  “I  wish  I  could  be  like  Ada! 
I  know  how  I  trouble  you,  and  I’d  give  anything  to 
be  a  steady,  philosophical,  obedient,  comfortable 
daughter!  Oh,  I  do  wish  I  could!” 

“Then  why  can’t  you  do  as  she  did  about  this 
young  man,  dear?  Why  can’t  you  see  the  truth 
about  him  as  everybody  else  sees  it?  There  aren’t 
any  fathers  and  mothers  of  girls  in  the  whole  place 
that  don’t  feel  the  same  way  about  him.  He  may 
seem  fascinating  to  a  few  susceptible  girls  who 
haven’t  any  experience,  but  he’s  just  a  bad  sort  of 


LILY’S  FRIEND  ADA  245 

joke  to  everyone  else.  Why  can’t  you  be  as  sensible 
as - ” 

But  the  moment  of  melting  had  passed.  When 
her  mother  spoke  of  young  Mr.  Gleason  as  just  a 
bad  sort  of  joke,  Lily  stepped  away  from  her,  trem- 
bhng.  ‘‘Mamma,”  she  said,  “I  wish  you  never  to 
speak  of  him  to  me  again  until  you  have  learned  to 
respect  both  him  and  myself.” 

Mrs.  Dodge  stared  helplessly;  then,  hearing  her 
husband  closing  the  front  door  downstairs,  she  made 
gestures  as  of  wringing  her  hands,  but  said  nothing, 
and  went  down  to  relieve  herself  by  agitating  Mr. 
Dodge  with  the  painful  narrative. 


XIX 


PARENTS  IN  DARKNESS 


UPON  its  conclusion,  he  went  so  far  as  to 
pace  the  floor  of  the  library,  and  make  what 
his  wife  called  an  attack  upon  herself. 
“I’ve  done  everything  anybody  could,”  she  pro¬ 
tested  in  defence.  “How  could  I  help  it  if  he  has 
been  here  a  few  times  when  you  weren’t  in  the  house 
It’s  all  very  simple  for  you!  You  merely  write  him  a 
letter  and  then  sit  in  your  oflBce,  miles  away,  and 
expect  me  to  do  the  rest!  You  don’t  have  to  go 
through  the  scenes  with  Lily  when  it  comes  to  keep¬ 
ing  him  out.  I  believe  it  would  be  better,  instead 
of  making  an  attack  on  your  wife,  if  you’d  put  your 
mind  on  what’s  to  be  done  about  it.” 

He  shook  his  head  gloomily.  “I’m  not  so  sure 
it  was  wise  to  write  him  that  letter.  I’m  not  sure  we 
haven’t  been  mistaken  in  our  whole  policy  with  Lily.” 

“Well,  you’ve  always  overruled  me,”  Mrs.  Dodge 
returned,  defensively.  “What  mistake  do  you  think 
you’ve  made?” 


£46 


PARENTS  IN  DARKNESS 


247 


“I  think  we’ve  probably  been  wrong  from  the 
start,”  he  said.  “Looking  back  over  all  our  strug¬ 
gles  with  Lily,  it’s  begun  to  seem  to  me  that  we 
never  once  accomplished  anything  whatever  by 
opposing  her.” 

“What!  Don’t  you  realize  that  she’s  still  a  child, 
and  that  children  have  to  be  opposed  for  their  own 
good?” 

“Not  when  they’re  nineteen,  and  it’s  opposition 
about  their  love  affairs  or  their  friendships,”  he  re¬ 
turned,  frowning;  and  he  continued  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  room,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him.  “I 
mean  open  opposition,  of  course.  I’ve  begun  to 
believe  it  never  does  the  slightest  good.” 

“Why  doesn’t  it? ”  she  asked,  challengingly.  “Are 
mothers  and  fathers  supposed  to  sit  aside  with  folded 
hands  and  calmly  watch  their  children  ruin  their 
lives?” 

He  shook  his  head  again,  and  sighed.  “Sometimes 
it  seems  to  me  that  fathers  and  mothers  might  just 
as  well  do  that  very  thing.  Certainly  you  and  I 
could  have  saved  ourselves  a  great  waste  of  voice  and 
gesticulation  ever  since  Lily’s  babyhood  if  we’d 
never  opposed  her.  And  so  far  as  I  can  see,  results 
would  have  been  just  the  same.  Suppose  we  go  on 


248 


WOMEN 


struggling  with  her  about  this  Gleason  nuisance; 
trying  to  keep  him  away  from  her,  arguing  with 
her,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Will  it  change  her  in  the 
slightest.^  Will  it  do  any  good  to  anybody?” 

“You  mean  to  say  that  we  have  no  effect  whatever 
upon  our  own  child?” 

“No,”  he  answered.  “We  might  have  an  effect. 
That’s  just  what  I’m  afraid  of.” 

“You  mean  we  shouldn’t  keep  on  telling  Lily  the 
truth  about  Price  Gleason?”  his  wife  cried,  incredu¬ 
lously. 

“Yes;  I’ve  almost  come  to  that  conclusion.  It 
doesn’t  seem  to  her  to  be  the  truth  about  him  when 
we  tell  it.  She  only  sees  it  as  an  attack  on  him. 
We  spoil  our  own  cause  by  making  her  his  defender, 
and  a  defender  can’t  help  idealizing  what  he  defends. 
I’ve  come  to  believe  that’s  where  we  parents  make  a 
lot  of  our  worst  mistakes — we’re  always  throwing 
our  children  into  the  camp  of  our  enemies.  And  in 
particular,  when  a  girl  is  showing  signs  of  being  in 
love  with  a  worthless  young  poseur ,  like  this  Gleason, 
I  believe  that  all  our  denouncing  and  arguing  and 
bossing  only  puts  a  glamour  about  the  fellow  in  the 
girl’s  eyes,  and  makes  her  more  certain  she’s  in  love 
with  him  and  wants  to  marry  him.” 


PARENTS  IN  DARKNESS 


249 


“Why,  no,”  Mrs.  Dodge  returned,  triumphantly 
demolishing  him  at  a  stroke.  “Look  at  Ada  Corey. 
Her  father  and  mother  told  her  the  truth  about  Price 
Gleason  and  declined  to  let  her  see  him.  That  was 
enough  for  Ada.  She  just  quietly  gave  him  up.” 

“I  know — I  know,”  Mr.  Dodge  admitted;  but 
clung  to  his  point.  “Ada  isn’t  like  most  girls  of  her 
age.  I  understand  her,  because  she’s  sensible,  and 
I  donH  understand  most  of  ’em — ^particularly  my  own 
daughter;  but  I’ve  grown  pretty  sure  of  one  thing 
and  that  is  this:  If  we  want  to  throw  Lily  into  this 
bounder’s  arms,  we’ll  keep  on  telling  her  the  truth 
about  him.  Our  one  chance  is  to  let  her  alone  and 
see  if  she  won’t  find  it  out  for  herself.” 

“In  other  words,  you  intend  to  revoke  our  whole 
policy  toward  him.^” 

“In  a  manner,  yes,  I  believe  we  should,”  Mr. 
Dodge  admitted.  “I  don’t  go  so  far  as  to  say  I 
mean  to  tell  Lily  I  consent  to  his  coming  to  the  house 
again;  but  I  propose  that  we  stop  mentioning  him  at 
all  in  her  presence,  and  that  if  she  speaks  of  him  we 
say  nothing  in  dispraise  of  him.  That  is,  from  now 
on  we’re  no  longer  actively  and  openly  opposing  her; 
and  if  you’re  going  with  her  to  that  country  club 
affair  to-morrow  night,  and  he’s  there,  I  suggest  that 


250 


WOMEN 


you  do  and  say  nothing  to  make  her  think  you  object 
to  her  being  with  him.  Let  her  dance  with  him  all 
she  wants.” 

“It  won’t  work,”  Lily’s  mother  predicted  omi¬ 
nously.  “Ada  Corey’s  father  took  the  right  course; 
he  simply  put  his  foot  down  and  that  ended  the 
matter.  Why  can’t  you  do  as  Mr.  Corey  did?” 

Mr.  Dodge  uttered  sounds  of  rueful  laughter. 
“I’ve  put  my  foot  down  with  Lily  so  many  times 
I’ve  worn  the  sole  off  my  shoe.  Remember,  too, 

t 

it’s  not  so  long  ago  since  she  cured  herself  of  another 
infatuation  because  you  thought  it  would  be  better 
for  us  to  withdraw  our  opposition.” 

“That  was  utterly  different,  and  the  whole  Osborne 
affair  was  a  mere  childish  absurdity.  Lily’s  older 
now,  and  you’re  proposing  a  terribly  dangerous 
thing.” 

“Nevertheless,  let’s  try  it.  What  else  can  we  do 
but  try  it?” 

“I  suppose  we’ve  got  to,  since  you’ve  made  up 
your  mind,”  his  wife  said,  stubbornly.  “But  I  con¬ 
sent  to  it  under  protest.  She’s  absolutely  infatuated, 
and  we’re  throwing  her  straight  in  his  arms.  You’ll 


see!” 


PARENTS  IN  DARKNESS 


251 


This  tragic  prophecy  of  hers  was  in  a  fair  way  to 
be  fulfilled  almost  immediately,  she  thought,  the 
next  evening,  as  she  sat  in  the  little  gallery  of  the 
Blue  Hills  Country  Club  ballroom  and  looked  down 
upon  the  dancers.  The  radiant  Lily  danced  again 
and  again  with  the  picturesque  Gleason;  and  her 
posture,  as  they  moved  gracefully  together,  was  sig¬ 
nificant — her  vivid,  delicate  face  was  always  uplifted, 
so  that  her  happy  eyes,  sweetly  confident,  seemed  con¬ 
tinuously  engaged  with  pretty  messages  to  her  part¬ 
ner.  The  poetically  handsome  Price,  on  his  part,  bent 
his  dark  head  above  her  ardently;  and  a  stranger 
would  have  guessed  yiem  at  first  sight  to  be  a  pair 
newly  betrothed.  In  fact,  Mrs.  Dodge  was  disquieted 
by  much  such  a  guess  of  her  own,  and  her  heart  sank 
as  she  watched  them.  Moreover,  while  her  heart 
sank,  her  indignation  rose.  This,  then,  was  the  result 
of  Mr.  Dodge’s  new  policy !  And  she  wished  that  he 
had  been  beside  her  to  see  its  result — and  to  hear 
her  opinion  of  it! 

Her  guess,  however,  like  that  of  the  supposititious 
stranger,  was  not  quite  accurate.  Lily  was  not 
engaged  to  Mr.  Gleason — not  “absolutely”  so,  to 
report  her  own  feeling  in  the  matter.  But  she  would 


252 


WOMEN 


have  admitted  being  “almost” — almost  engaged — 
that  night.  The  Mexican  hero  had  never  definitely 
proposed  marriage,  any  more  than  she  had  felt 
herself  prepared  for  a  definite  consent  to  such  a  pro¬ 
posal;  but  his  every  persuasive  word  and  look  and  all 
her  own  reciprocal  coquetry  pointed  to  that  end. 
And  as  the  evening  continued  and  they  danced  and 
danced  together,  murmuring  little  piquancies  to  each 
other  meanwhile,  the  haziness  implied  in  “almost” 
seemed  more  and  more  on  the  point  of  being  dis¬ 
persed.  Lily  preferred  that  it  be  not  quite;  but  her 
partner  was  “wonderful”  to  look  up  to,  and  to  listen 
to  as  she  looked.  He  had  warmly  appreciative  dark 
eyes  and  a  stirring  mellow  voice;  and  he  danced, 
if  not  like  a  Mordkin,  then  at  least  like  a  Valentino, 
which  may  sometimes  be  preferable.  All  in  all,  she 
might  have  been  swept  away  if  he  had  pressed  the 
sweeping. 

She  was  the  happier  because  he  did  not — the  in¬ 
definite  “almost”  was  so  much  pleasanter  and  more 
exciting — and  she  had  what  she  defined  as  a  simply 
magnificent  time.  Now  and  then  she  knew,  in  an 
untroubled,  hazy  way,  that  a  mute  doomfulness 
hovered  above  her  in  the  gallery;  but  she  felt  that 
her  mother  was  behaving  excellently — most  surpris- 


PARENTS  IN  DARKNESS 


253 


ingly,  too — in  not  interfering  at  all.  The  one  thing 
to  bother  Lily — and  that  only  a  little,  and  because  it 
puzzled  her — came  at  the  very  end  of  the  evening. 
It  was  something  her  friend  Ada  said  to  her  as  they 
were  alone  together  in  the  corner  of  a  cloakroom,  pre^ 
paring  to  go  home  after  the  last  dance. 


XX 


DAMSEL  DARK,  DAMSEL  FAIR 


DIDN’T  I  tell  you  that  you  could  get  away 
with  anything?”  Ada  said.  “Weren’t  all 
three  of  ’em  just  as  wild  about  you  to-night 
as  if  you  hadn’t  done  it?” 

“Done  what?” 

“Skipped  out  to  walk  with  me  and  didn’t  leave 
any  word  behind,  when  you’d  made  engagements 
with  all  of  ’em.”  And  then,  as  Lily’s  flushed  and 
happy  face  showed  a  complete  vagueness  upon  the 
matter,  Ada  exclaimed,  “Good  gracious!  Yester¬ 
day!” 

Lily  remembered,  but  as  one  remembers  things  of 
long  ago.  “Oh,  that?”  she  said,  dreamily.  “It 
wasn’t  anything.” 

Ada  looked  at  her  sharply  and  oddly;  and  Lily 
afterward  recalled  the  strangeness  of  this  look. 
Ada’s  eyes,  usually  placid,  were  wide  and  lustrous; 
her  colour  was  high,  and  she  seemed  excited.  “Have 
you  done  anything  to  get  out  of  being  practically 

254 


DAMSEL  DARK,  DAMSEL  FAIR  255 

almost  engaged  to  any  of  them?”  she  whispered, 
leaning  close.  “If  you  haven’t,  you  don’t  need  to 
worry  anyhow,  Lily.” 

She  spoke  hurriedly,  all  in  a  breath,  then  kissed 
Lily’s  cheek  quickly  and  whispered,  “I’m  sorry!” 
She  ran  out  into  the  crowded  hallway,  drawing  her 
cloak  about  her  as  she  ran. 

“Why,  what  in  the  world - ”  Lily  began,  but 

Ada  was  already  out  of  hearing,  and  disappeared 
immediately  among  the  homeward-bound  dancers 
near  the  outer  doors.  Lily  followed,  but  could  catch 

1 

not  even  a  glimpse  of  her,  though  she  found  an  op- 

t 

portunity  to  say  good-night — again — to  Mr.  Gleason, 
who  was  departing. 

“Good-night,  but  never  good-bye,  I  hope,”  he 
said,  with  a  fervour  somewhat  preoccupied.  “You’ve 
been  beautiful  to  me.  I  hope  you’ll  always  be  my 
friend.”  And  with  the  air  of  a  person  pressed  for 
time,  he  touched  her  hand  briefly  and  passed  on. 
Lily  attributed  his  haste  to  the  approach  of  her 
mother,  who  was  ponderously  bearing  down  upon 
them;  but  this  interpretation  may  have  been  a  mis¬ 
taken  one.  Mr.  Gleason  had  much  on  his  mind  at 
the  moment,  and  Mrs.  Dodge  carefully  withheld  her¬ 
self  from  joining  her  daughter  until  he  had  gone. 


£56 


WOMEN 


.  .  .  Mr.  Dodge  had  not  retired  to  bed;  he 

was  smoking  in  the  library  when  the  two  ladies  of 
his  household  returned  from  their  merrymaking. 
Lily  kissed  him  enthusiastically,  while  his  wife  stood 
by,  pure  granite. 

“You’ve  had  a  jolly  evening,  Lily?” 

“Beautiful!”  she  said.  “Oh,  simply  magnifi¬ 
cent!”  And  she  ran  upstairs  to  bed. 

That  is  to  say,  she  was  on  her  way  to  bed,  and  she 
ran  up  the  stairs  as  far  as  the  landing;  but  there  she 
paused.  The  acoustic  properties  of  the  house  were 
excellent,  and  from  the  stairway  landing  one  could 
hear  perfectly  what  was  said  in  the  library  when 
the  library  door  was  open.  What  stopped  Lily  was 
the  bitter  conviction  in  her  mother’s  voice. 

“Do  you  see?”  Mrs.  Dodge  demanded.  '‘Do 
you  see  what  you’re  doing?  It’s  just  as  I  told  you 
it  would  be.  Absolutely!” 

“Oh,  no!”  he  protested.  “This  much  isn’t  a  fair 
trial.  You  haven’t  given  it  a  chance.” 

“Haven’t  I?”  Mrs.  Dodge  laughed  satirically. 
“It’s  had  chance  enough  to  show  where  it’s  certain 
to  end.  Don’t  you  see  that  for  yourseK?” 

“No.  What  makes  you  think  I  should?” 

“I’ll  tell  you.”  But  before  going  on  to  relate  her 


DAMSEL  DARK,  DAMSEL  FAIR  257 


impressions  of  the  evening,  Mrs.  Dodge  had  a  deter¬ 
rent  thought.  She  stood  silent  a  moment,  then  went 
to  the  door  and  called  softly  upward,  “Lily?” 

“Yes,  Mamma.  I’m  just  going  up  to  bed,”  Lily 
said,  diplomatically,  and  proceeded  upon  her  way  as 
her  mother  closed  the  library  door. 

Lily  wondered  if  they  were  talking  about  her, 
though  she  was  unable  to  see  how  giving  something 
a  fair  trial  could  have  anything  to  do  with  her. 
She  could  no  longer  hear  the  words  her  parents  were 
uttering,  though  the  sound  of  their  voices  still  came 
to  her  in  the  upper  hall,  and  it  was  evident  that  they 
were  beginning  a  spirited  discussion.  Her  father’s 
voice  sounded  protestive,  her  mother’s  denunciatory, 
and  Lily  decided  that  they  probably  weren’t  talking 
about  her  at  all.  She  was  in  high  spirits  and  laughed 
to  herself  over  their  earnestness — older  people  got 
excited  and  argued  so  over  such  dull  matters,  she 
thought.  It  would  be  a  terrible  thing  ever  to  get 
middle-aged  like  that! 

She  never  would  be  like  that,  she  said  to  herself  as 
she  undressed.  Never!  Such  a  thing  couldn’t 
happen.  “To  be  like  Mamma  and  not  care  much 
what  you  wear,  or  anything,  and  with  a  good  dry  old 
husband  at  home — and  all  so  dusty  and  musty  and 


258  WOMEN 

settled — and  not  able  to  look  at  another  man — could 
never  in  the  world  be  like  that!  Ada  Corey  could, 
but  I  couldn’t.  I’d  a  thousand  times  rather  die!” 

And  with  the  thought  of  Ada  she  remembered 
Ada’s  rather  enigmatic  remarks  to  her  in  the  cloak¬ 
room  and  the  queer  look  Ada  had  given  her.  The 
recollection  of  that  oddly  sharp  look  disturbed  her, 
and,  when  she  had  gone  to  bed,  kept  her  awhile 
from  sleeping.  There  had  been  something  appealing 
in  that  look,  too,  something  excitedly  reticent,  as  of 
strange  knowledge  withheld,  and  yet  something 
humble  and  questing.  And  what  in  the  world  had 
she  meant  by  saying,  ‘T’m  sorry!”  as  she  ran  out  of 
the  room. 

Lily  had  to  give  it  up,  at  least  for  that  night,  but 
she  made  up  her  mind  to  call  Ada  on  the  telephone 
early  in  the  morning  and  reproach  her  for  keeping 
people  awake  by  suddenly  becoming  mysterious. 
Of  course,  though,  the  explanation  would  be  simple, 
and  the  mystery  would  turn  out  to  be  nothing  of  any 
importance.  Ada  never  knew  any  exciting  secrets 
and  probably  hadn’t  intended  to  be  mysterious  at 
all.  Having  come  to  this  conclusion,  Lily  let  her 
thoughts  go  where  they  wanted  to  go,  though  they 


DAMSEL  DARK,  DAMSEL  FAIR  259 

were  not  so  much  thoughts  as  pictures  and  dreamy 
echoes  of  sounds — pictures  of  dark  and  tender  eyes 
bent  devotedly  upon  hers,  dreamy  echoes  of  a  mellow 
voice  murmuring  fond  things  to  the  lilting  accompani¬ 
ment  of  far-away  dance  music.  So,  finally,  she  slept, 
and  slept  smiling. 

A  coloured  maid  tapped  at  her  door  in  the  morning, 
and,  being  bidden  to  enter,  came  in  and  brought  to 
Lily’s  bedside  a  note  addressed  in  Ada’s  hand. 

“Must  been  lef’  here  in  the  night-time.  Miss 
Lily,  or  else  awful  early  this  morn’.  It  was  stickin’ 
under  the  front  door  when  I  went  to  bring  in  the 
newspaper.” 

Lily  read  the  note. 

It  was  the  only  thing  we  could  do,  Lily,  to  keep  my  people 
from  guessing  what  was  really  going  on.  We  didn’t  mean  to 
let  it  go  on  so  long,  but  we  had  to  wait  until  we  could  save  up 
enough  to  start  with.  Of  course,  I  know  everybody  will  say  I’m 
hopelessly  mad  and  reckless,  and  my  family  will  be  terribly 
upset.  I  told  you  I  wished  I  were  like  you.  If  it  were  you,  you 
could  get  away  with  a  thing  like  this  and  after  a  day  or  so  nobody 
would  think  anything  about  it,  but  I  know  how  awful  and  differ¬ 
ent  it  will  seem  to  everybody  because  I’m  the  one  that  does  it! 

I’m  glad  you  told  me  it  didn’t  really  mean  anything  serious 
to  you — ^I  was  sure  it  wouldn’t.  I  hope  you  won’t  feel  I  ought 
to  have  given  you  my  confidence,  and  I  would  have  given  it  if  it 
hadn’t  been  such  a  serious  matter.  Besides,  the  real  truth  is, 


260 


WOMEN 


Lily,  our  whole  friendship  seemed  to  be  centred  on  your  affairs 
and  you,  never  on  me  or  mine.  You  were  so  interested  in  the 
confidences  you  made  to  me,  you  never  even  seemed  to  think 
I  had  any  to  make  of  my  own  and  you  never  invited  any.  Please 
don’t  take  this  for  criticism — and  please  wish  me  happiness! 

Lily  dressed  hurriedly;  Ada  had  indeed  mystified 
and  disturbed  her  now;  and  she  was  eager  to  get  to 
the  telephone  downstairs  and  find  out  what  in  the 
world  this  strange  communication  portended.  But 
as  she  passed  the  dining-room  door  on  her  way  to  the 
little  telephone  table  in  the  hall,  her  mother  called 
to  her.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dodge  were  at  breakfast. 

“Not  now,  Mamma.  I’ll  come  in  a  moment.  I 
want  to  telephone  to  Ada  first.” 

“Lily,”  her  father  said,  urgently,  “I  wouldn’t.” 

His  tone  arrested  her,  and  she  paused  near  the 
doorway. 

“You  wouldn’t  telephone  to  Ada.^”  she  asked, 
nervously.  “Why  wouldn’t  you. 

“Ada’s  not  there,”  he  said,  gravely.  “Come  here, 
Lily.” 

She  came  in  slowly,  looking  at  him  with  an  appeal¬ 
ing  apprehension;  and  his  own  look,  in  return,  was 
compassionate.  He  held  a  morning  paper  in  his 
hand,  and  moved  as  if  to  offer  it  to  her,  then  withheld 
it.  “Wait,”  he  said.  “Your  mother  and  I  both 


DAMSEL  DARK,  DAMSEL  FAIR  261 

think  her  family  have  behaved  foolishly.  If  they’d 
shown  a  little  more  discretion — but  she’s  the  sort  of 
girl  nobody’d  have  dreamed  would  be  up  to  this  sort 
of  thing,  and  I  suppose  they  must  have  been  terribly 
upset.  Of  course,  they  might  have  known  the 
papers  would  get  it,  though,  when  they  began  calling 
up  the  police  to  look  for  her  and  stop  the - ” 

“Police!”  Lily  gasped.  “Papa!  What  are  you 
talking  about?” 

“Ada  Corey,”  he  said.  “She  never  came  home 
from  the  dance  last  night.  She’s  run  away  with 
that  crazy  young  Price  Gleason.  They  eloped  from 
the  Country  Club,  and  the  paper  says  they  were 
married  at  a  village  squire’s  office  about  an  hour 
afterward.” 

With  that,  not  looking  at  her,  but  at  his  plate, 
he  offered  her  the  newspaper.  Lily  did  not  take  it. 
She  stared  at  it,  wholly  incredulous;  then  she  red¬ 
dened  with  sudden  high  colour,  and,  remembering 
Ada’s  queer  look  of  last  night,  needed  not  even  the 
confirmation  of  the  queerer  letter  just  read  to  imder- 
stand  that  the  thing  was  true. 

She  said  nothing,  but  after  a  moment  went  to  her 
chair  at  the  table,  and,  although  he  did  not  look  at 
her,  Mr.  Dodge  had  a  relieved  impression  that  she  was 


262  WOMEN 

about  to  sit  down  and  eat  her  breakfast  in  a  custom¬ 
ary  manner.  Then  his  wife  rose  suddenly  and 
moved  as  if  to  go  to  her. 

“Let  me  alone! Lily  gasped.  She  ran  out  of  the 
door  and  up  to  her  own  room. 

She  felt  that  she  could  not  live.  No  one  could 
live,  she  thought,  and  bear  such  agony.  The  di¬ 
mensions  of  her  anger,  too  great  to  be  contained, 
were  what  agonized  her. 

‘‘To  think  of  their  daring  to  make  me  a  mere 
blind!’’  she  cried  out  to  her  mother,  when  Mrs. 
Dodge  followed  her.  “To  think  they  dared!  It’s 
the  treachery  of  it — the  insolence  of  it!  I  can’t  live 
and  be  made  a  mere  blind!  I  canHy  Mamma!” 


XXI 

MHS.  Cromwell’s  niece 


IN  THE  meantime,  touching  these  mothers  and 
daughters,  there  was  a  figure  not  thus  far  ap¬ 
peared  among  them,  yet  destined  to  be  for  a 
while  their  principal  topic  and  interest.  She  was, 
indeed,  at  this  time,  a  lonely  figure,  a  niece  of  Mrs. 
Cromwell’s  but  not  well  known  to  her  and  living 
a  day’s  rail  journey  to  the  westward.  On  the  No¬ 
vember  day  of  Lily  Dodge’s  agony  this  niece  of  Mrs. 
Cromwell’s  was  as  agonized  as  Lily. 

Each  thought  herself  the  unhappiest  soul  in  the 
world,  and  yet,  with  greater  wisdom,  each  might 
have  known  that  no  girl  can  ever  think  herself  the 
unhappiest  but  that,  at  the  same  time,  other  girls — 
somewhere — will  be  thinking  the  same  thing  and 
suffering  as  sadly.  The  lonely  niece’s  tragedy  was 
as  dark  as  Lily’s,  but  came  about  in  a  different  way. 

The  group  of  girls  who  had  happened  to  meet  at  the 
corner  of  Maple  Street  and  Central  Avenue  that 
morning  was  like  the  groups  their  mothers  had 

263 


264 


WOMEN 


sometimes  formed,  years  before,  on  the  same  corner. 
This  is  to  say,  it  was  not  unlike  any  other  group  of 
young  but  marriageable  maidens  pausing  together  by 
chance  at  a  corner  in  the  “best  residence  section” 
of  a  town  of  forty  or  fifty  thousand  inhabitants, 
anywhere  in  the  land. 

Three  of  these  seven  girls  were  on  their  way  home¬ 
ward  from  ‘downtown”;  three  were  strolling  in  the 
opposite  direction;  and  the  seventh,  seeing  the  two 
parties  meet  and  begin  their  chatter  with  loud  out¬ 
cries,  had  come  hurrying  from  a  quiet  old  house  near 
by  to  join  them.  The  six  made  a  great  commotion. 
Their  laughter  whooped  on  the  whirling  autumn 
wind  that  flapped  their  skirts  about  them;  their 
gesturing  hands  fluttered  like  the  last  leaves  of  the 
agitated  shade  trees  above  them;  their  simultaneous 
struggles  for  a  hearing,  shattering  the  peace  of  the 
comfortable  neighbourhood,  were  not  incomparable 
to  the  disorderly  uproar  of  a  box  of  fireworks  pre¬ 
maturely  exploding  on  the  third  of  July. 

The  seventh  girl,  who  had  come  across  the  lawn  of 
the  quiet  old  house  on  the  corner  to  join  them,  also 
shouted,  begging  to  be  told  the  cause  of  so  much 
vociferation. 

“What’s  happened?  What  on  earth’s  the  matter?” 


MRS.  CROMWELL’S  NIECE 


265 


she  cried,  going  from  one  to  another  of  the  clamorous 
damsels  and  trying  to  make  herself  heard.  “W^hat 
is  it?  What’s  going  on?  What’s  it  all  about? 

One  or  two  took  cognizance  of  her  with  a  nod  and  a 
hasty  greeting,  “Hello,  Elsie,”  but  found  no  more 
time  for  her;  and  the  rest  paid  no  attention  whatever 
to  her  or  to  her  eager  inquiries.  They  were  too  busy 
shouting,  “But  listen,  my  dear!”  or  “I  never  in  all 
my  life!’*  or  “My  dear,  you  never  saw  anything 
like  it!”  though  the  smallest  of  them,  a  pretty  bru¬ 
nette  with  the  most  piercing  voice  of  all,  did  at  last 
begin  an  explanatory  response  to  the  repeated  en¬ 
treaties  of  this  Elsie.  “Paul  Reamer  said - ” 

But,  as  if  realizing  the  waste  of  so  much  energy  upon 
a  person  unconcerned  in  the  matter,  she  immediately 
turned  to  the  others,  shrieking,  ‘^Listen!  For  Heav¬ 
en’s  sake,  listen!  He  said  he’d  be  along  before  we 
got  halfway  home!  He  said - ” 

Then  even  the  small  brunette’s  remarkable  voice 
was  merged  in  the  conglomerate  disturbance,  and 
Elsie  was  no  wiser  than  before.  She  continued  to  go 
from  one  girl  to  another,  shouting,  “What  about 
Paul  Reamer?  What’s  he  done?  What  about  him?  ” 
But  for  all  the  response  she  got  she  might  have  been 
both  invisible  and  inaudible. 


266 


WOMEN 


The  uproar  the  six  girls  were  making  had  no  co¬ 
herence;  it  accomplished  nothing;  it  was  merely  a 
happy  noise;  and  yet  it  seemed  to  be  about  something 
that  concerned  the  six  and  was  understood  by  them — 
something  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  seventh 
girl  and  could  not  be  understood  by  her.  The  six 
were  not  hostile  to  her;  they  were  merely  unaware  of 
her,  or,  at  least,  in  their  excitement,  too  dimly  aware 
of  her  to  pay  any  heed  to  her. 

So,  presently,  she  gave  over  her  efforts  and  stood 
silent,  a  little  apart  from  the  shouting  group  and 
smiling;  but  her  smiling  was  only  an  expression  of 
hers,  not  a  true  token  of  feeling  within.  She  wished 
to  go  on  making  her  share  of  the  noise;  but  a  persist¬ 
ently  disregarded  questioner  must  always  become 
at  last  a  mere  onlooker.  Thus,  Elsie  found  herself 
excluded  from  the  merriment  she  had  come  to  join; 
and  she  felt  obliged  to  maintain  a  lively  and  knowing 
look  upon  her  face,  so  that  passers-by  might  not 
think  her  an  outsider,  for  she  did  not  know  how  to 
go  away  with  any  grace  or  comfort.  Excluded,  she 
could  only  stand  near  the  congenial,  vociferous  six 
and  try  to  look  included — a  strain  upon  her  facial 
expression.  The  strain  became  painful  as  she  still 
lingered  and  the  merry  group  grew  merrier;  but 


MRS.  crom:well’s  niece 


267 


what  pained  her  more  was  her  regret  that  she  had 
rushed  out  so  hopefully  to  meet  an  exclusion  she 
should  have  known  enough  to  expect. 

She  might  have  known  enough  to  expect  it  because 
this  was  an  old  familiar  experience  of  hers,  an  ex¬ 
perience  so  much  worse  than  customary  that  it  was 
invariable.  And  another  familiar  old  experience, 
or  phase  of  this  one,  was  repeated  as  she  stood  there, 
smiling  and  somewhat  glassily  beaming,  trying  to 
look  knowing  and  included. 

From  down  the  street  there  came  swiftly  into 
nearer  view  an  open  touring  car,  driven  by  a  slender 
young  gentleman  of  a  darkly  handsome  yet  sprightly 
aspect;  and  upon  this  the  six  clamoured  far  beyond 
all  clamours  they  had  made  before.  The  debonair 
motorist  steered  his  machine  to  the  curb,  close  to 
them,  jumped  out,  was  surrounded  by  the  vocifera- 
tors,  and  added  his  own  cheerful  shoutings  to  theirs. 

What  they  all  meant  to  convey  was  for  the  most 
part  as  unknown  to  Elsie  Hemingway  as  if  they 
gabbled  Arabic,  though  the  name  “Paul”  was  preva¬ 
lent  over  the  tumult,  amidst  which  the  owner  of  it 
was  seized  by  his  coat  lapels,  his  shoulders,  even  by 
his  chin,  and  entreated  to  “listen!”  Finally,  how¬ 
ever,  some  sort  of  coherent  communication  seemed 


268 


WOMEN 


to  be  established  among  them,  and  the  young  man 
emerged  from  the  group,  though  the  small  girl  with 
the  piercing  voice  still  clung  to  one  of  his  coat  pock¬ 
ets.  “Call  up  Fred!”  she  screamed.  “Tell  him  we 
won’t  wait  one  instant!” 

He  detached  himself.  “Elsie,  can  I  use  your 
telephone?”  he  asked,  but  evidently  regarded  the 
question  as  unimportant,  for  he  was  already  upon 
his  way  and  did  not  pause. 

“Oh,  do/”  she  cried,  enthusiastically,  glad  to  seem 
a  part  of  the  mystery  at  last,  and  she  turned  to  go 
with  him.  “Do  you  want  to  call  up  Fred  Patterson 
to  bring  his  car?  Are  you  getting  up  a  party,  Paul? 
What’s  the - ” 

He  had  rushed  ahead  of  her  and  was  at  the  open 
front  door  of  the  house.  “Where  do  you  keep  it?” 
he  called  back  to  her. 

“Wait!  It’s  in  the  back  hall.  Wait  till  I  show 
you,”  she  cried;  but  he  ran  into  the  house,  found 
the  telephone,  and  was  busy  with  it  before  she 
reached  him. 

“Did  you  get  Fred’s  number?”  she  asked,  eagerly. 

He  was  smiling  and  his  eyes  were  bright  with 
anticipations  that  seemed  to  concern  not  Elsie  but 
the  instrument  before  him.  He  did  not  look  at  her 


MRS.  CROMWELL’S  NIECE  269 

« 

or  seem  even  to  hear  her,  but  moved  the  nickeled 
prong  up  and  down  impatiently. 

“Can’t  you  get  him.?^”  Elsie  inquired,  and  she 
laughed  loudly.  Her  air  was  that  of  a  person  secretly 
engaged  with  another  upon  a  jocular  enterprise 
bound  to  afiPord  great  entertainment.  “Old  Fred 
is  the  slowest  old  poke,  isn’t  he?  Suppose  I  try, 
Paul.” 

Young  Mr.  Reamer’s  eyes  wandered  to  her  and 
lost  their  lustre,  becoming  dead  with  absent- 
mindedness  immediately.  He  said  nothing. 

“Let  me  try  to  get  that  funny  old  Fred,”  Elsie 
urged  in  the  same  eager  voice;  and  she  stretched 
forth  a  hand  for  the  instrument. 

Upon  this  he  moved  his  shoulder  in  her  way, 
turning  from  her,  and  at  the  same  time  a  small 
voice  crackled  in  the  telephone.  Mr.  Reamer’s 
brightness  of  expression  returned  instantly.  “You 
bet  it’s  me!”  he  said.  “And  if  you  don’t  hurry 
up  here  in  that  old  tin  boat  of  yours,  you’re  going 
to  get  killed!  The  whole  gang’s  out  here  on  the 
curbstone,  simply  raving,  right  in  front  of  Elsie 
Hemingway’s.” 

“I  believe  it  is  Fred!”  Elsie  exclaimed.  “I  be¬ 
lieve  you’ve  got  him  after  all.  Does  he  say - ” 


270 


WOMEN 


“You  better  hurry!”  the  young  man  said  to  the 
mouthpiece  as  he  dropped  the  receiver  into  its  hook. 
Then,  as  he  turned  toward  the  door,  he  seemed  to 
become  conscious,  though  vaguely,  that  he  was  not 
alone.  “Much  ’bliged,  Elsie,”  he  said.  “Goo’bye!” 

“Wait.  Wait  just  a  minute,  Paul.” 

“What  for?” 

“Fred  isn’t  on  his  way  yet,  I  don’t  suppose,”  she 

I 

said,  timidly.  “Let’s — let’s  wait  in  Papa’s  library 
till  he  comes.  There  are  some  pretty  interesting 
books  in  there  I’d  like  to  show  you.  Papa’s  great 
on  bindings  and  old  editions.  Wouldn’t  you  like 
to  see  some  of  ’em?” 

“Well,  another  day  maybe,”  he  answered,  obvi¬ 
ously  surprised.  “You  see  Mamie  Ford  and  all  the 
girls  are  out  there,  and  I - ” 

“Wait,”  she  begged,  for  he  was  in  motion  to  de¬ 
part.  “Aren’t  you  ever  coming  to  see  me  again, 
Paul?” 

ft 

“What?”  He  appeared  to  have  no  comprehen¬ 
sion  of  her  meaning. 

“Aren’t  you  ever  coming  to  see  me  again?”  She 
laughed  lightly,  yet  there  was  a  tremor  in  her  voice. 
“I  don’t  believe  you’ve  been  in  our  house  for  over 
two  years,  Paul.” 


MRS.  CROMWELL’S  NIECE 


271 


“Oh,  yes,  I  have,”  he  returned.  “I  must  have 
been  here  a  whole  lot  in  that  much  time.  G’bye, 
Elsie;  the  girls  are - ” 

But  again  she  contrived  to  detain  him.  “Wait. 
When  will  you  come  to  see  me  again,  Paul?” 

“Oh,  almost  any  time.” 

“But  when?  What  day?” 

This  urgency,  though  gentle,  bothered  him,  and 
he  wished  he  hadn’t  thought  of  using  Elsie’s  tele¬ 
phone.  He  was  a  youth  much  sought,  as  he  had 
reason  to  be  pleasantly  aware,  and  life  offered  him 
many  more  interesting  vistas  than  the  prospect  of 
an  afternoon  or  an  evening  or  a  substantial  part  of 
either,  to  be  spent  tete-a-tete  with  Elsie  Hemingway. 
Pressed  to  give  a  definite  reason  why  such  a  prospect 
dismayed  him,  he  might  have  been  puzzled.  Elsie 
wasn’t  exactly  a  bore;  she  wasn’t  bad-looking,  and 
nobody  disliked  her.  Probably  he  would  have 
fallen  back  upon  an  explanation  that  would  have 
been  satisfactory  enough  to  most  of  the  young  people 
with  whom  he  and  Elsie  had  “grown  up.”  Elsie 
was  “just  Elsie  Hemingway,”  he  would  have  said, 
implying  an  otherwise  unexplainable  something  in¬ 
herent  in  Elsie  herself,  and  nothing  derogatory  to  the 
Hemingway  family. 


272 


WOMEN 


*^When  will  you  come,  Paul?*’ 

‘‘Why — why,  right  soon,  Elsie.  Honestly  I  will. 

I’ll  try  to,  that  is.  Honestly  I’ll - ” 

“Paul,  it’s  true  you  haven’t  been  here  in  over 
two  years.”  Elsie’s  voice  trembled  a  little  more  per¬ 
ceptibly.  “The  last  time  you  were  here  was  when 
you  came  to  Mother’s  funeral.  You  had  to  come 
then,  because  you  had  to  bring  your  mother.” 

“Oh,  no,”  he  said,  a  little  shocked  at  this  strange 

reference.  “I  was  gl - I  mean  I  wanted  to  come. 

I’ll  come  again,  too,  some  day,  before  long.  I  must 

run,  Elsie.  The  girls - ” 

“You  won’t  say  when?”  She  spoke  gravely, 
looking  at  him  steadily,  and  there  was  more  in  her 
eyes  than  he  saw,  for  he  was  not  interested  in  finding 
what  was  there,  or  in  anything  except  in  his  escape 
to  the  gaiety  outdoors. 

He  laughed  reassuringly.  “Oh,  sometime  before 
very  long.  I’ll  honestly  try  to  get  ’round.  Hon¬ 
estly,  I  will,  Elsie.  Listen!” 

There  were  shriekings  of  his  name  from  the  street 
and  lawn.  “G’bye!  I’m  coming!”  he  shouted,  and 
dashed  out  of  the  house  to  meet  the  vehement  de¬ 
mand  for  him.  He  was  asked  at  the  top  of  several 
voices  “what  on  earth”  he’d  been  doing  all  that  time; 


MRS.  CROMLWELL^S  NIECE  £73 

but  no  one  even  jocularly  suggested  Elsie  as  a  cause 
of  his  delay. 

When  he  had  gone,  she  went  to  the  front  door  and 
closed  it,  keeping  herself  out  of  sight;  then  she  stood 
looking  through  the  lace  curtain  that  covered  the 
glass  set  into  the  upper  half  of  the  door.  The  amia¬ 
ble  youth  she  had  called  “old  Fred,”  accompanied 
by  a  male  comrade,  was  just  arriving  in  a  low  car 
wherein  they  reclined  almost  at  full  length  rather 
than  sat.  The  small  but  piercing  Miss  Ford  leaped 
to  join  them,  and  the  other  girls,  screaming,  each 
trying  to  make  her  laughter  dominant,  piled  them¬ 
selves  into  Paul  Reamer’s  car.  Both  machines 
trembled  into  motion  at  once,  and  swept  away, 
carrying  a  great  noise  with  them  up  the  echoing 
street. 

Elsie  stood  for  a  little  while  looking  heavily  out  at 
nothing;  then  she  went  slowly  up  the  old,  carpeted 
stairway  to  her  own  room,  where  she  did  a  singular 
thing.  She  took  a  hand  mirror  from  her  dressing- 
table,  looked  searchingly  into  the  glass  for  several 
long  and  solemn  minutes,  then  dropped  down  upon 
her  bed  and  wept.  She  might  have  been  a  beauty 
discovering  the  first  gray  hair. 

It  was  strange  that  she  should  look  into  a  mirror 


274 


WOMEN 


and  then  weep  because,  if  the  glass  was  honest  with 
her,  its  revelation  should  have  been  in  every  detail 
encouraging.  The  reflection  showed  lamenting  gray 
eyes,  but  long-lashed  and  vividly  lustrous;  it  showed 
a  good  white  brow  and  a  neat  nose  and  a  shapely 
mouth  and  chin.  No  one  could  have  asked  a  mirror 
to  be  coloured  a  pleasanter  tan  brown  than  where  it 
reflected  Elsie’s  rippling  hair;  and  as  for  the  rest  of 
her,  she  was  neither  angular  nor  awkward,  neither 
stout  nor  misshapen  in  any  way,  but  the  contrary. 
Yet  this  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  done  that 
strange  thing; — she  had  come  too  often  silently  to 
her  room,  looked  into  her  mirror,  and  then  fallen 
to  long  weeping. 


XXII 


WALLFLOWER 

The  first  time  she  had  done  it  she  was  only 
twelve;  but  even  then  her  reason  for  it  was 
the  same.  At  the  end  of  a  children’s  party 
she  realized  that  she  had  been  miserable,  and  that 
she  was  never  anything  except  miserable  at  parties. 
She  always  looked  forward  to  them;  always  thought 
for  days  about  what  she  would  wear;  always  set 
forth  in  a  tremor  of  excitement;  and  then,  when  she 
was  there,  and  the  party  in  full  swing,  she  spent  the 
time  being  wretched  and  trying  to  look  happy,  so 
that  no  one  would  guess  what  she  felt.  She  had  al¬ 
ways  the  same  experience:  in  the  games  the  children 
played,  if  two  leaders  chose  “sides,”  she  was  the  last 
to  be  chosen,  except  when  she  was  ignored  and  left 
out  altogether,  which  sometimes  happened.  When 
they  danced  she  usually  had  no  partners  except 
upon,  the  urgency  of  mothers  or  hostesses; — the  boys 
rushed  to  all  the  other  girls  and  came  lagging  to 
Elsie  only  in  duty  or  in  desperation.  So  at  last,  being 

275 


^76 


WOMEN 


twelve,  she  realized  what  had  been  happening  to  her 
— and  came  home  to  look  secretly  into  her  mirror 
and  then  to  weep. 

As  she  grew  older,  and  her  group  with  her,  nothing 
changed;  she  was  a  wallflower.  The  other  girls  were 
all  busy  with  important  little  appointments 
— “dates”  they  called  them — Elsie  had  none.  With 
the  liveliest  eagerness  the  others  talked  patteringly 
about  things  that  were  meaningless  to  her;  and  when 
she  tried  to  talk  that  way,  too,  she  failed  shamefully. 
She  tried  to  laugh  with  them,  and  as  loudly  as  they 
did,  when  she  had  no  idea  what  they  were  laughing 
about;  and  for  a  long  time  she  failed  to  understand 
that  usually  they  were  laughing  about  nothing.  On 
summer  evenings  the  boys  and  girls  clustered  on 
other  verandas,  not  hers;  and,  sitting  alone,  she 
would  hear  the  distant  frolicking  and  drifts  of  song. 
At  dances  for  her  sixteen  and  seventeen-year-old 
contemporaries,  everything  was  as  it  had  been  when 
she  was  twelve.  Even  when  her  mother,  guessing  a 
little  of  the  truth,  tried  to  help  her,  and,  in  spite  of 
failing  health,  worked  hard  at  “entertaining”  for 
Elsie,  the  entertaining  failed  of  its  object; — Elsie 
was  not  made  “popular.” 


WALLFLOWER 


277 


**Why  not?”  she  had  passionately  asked  herself 
a  thousand  times.  ^^Why  do  they  despise  me  so?” 

Yet  she  knew  that  they  did  not  even  despise  her. 
At  times  they  did  despise  one  of  their  group,  usually 
a  girl;  for  it  seems  to  be  almost  a  necessity,  in  an 
intimate  circle  of  young  people,  that  from  time  to 
time  there  shall  be  a  member  whom  the  rest  may 
privately  denounce,  and  in  gatherings  vent  their  wit 
upon  more  or  less  openly. 

During  the  greater  part  of  her  seventeenth  year 
the  dashing  Mamie  Ford  had  been  in  this  unfortunate 
position  without  any  obvious  cause.  The  others 
were  constantly  busy  “talking”  about  her,  finding 
new  faults  or  absurdities  in  her;  snubbing  her  and 
playing  derisive  practical  jokes  upon  her — for  it  is 
true  that  youth  is  cruel;  self-interest  takes  up  so  much 
room.  Elsie  envied  her,  for  at  least  Mamie  was  in 
the  thick  of  things;  and  the  centre  of  the  stew.  That 
was  better  than  being  a  mere  left-outer,  Elsie 
thought;  and  Mamie  fought,  too,  and  had  her  own 
small  faction,  whereas  a  left-outer  has  nothing  to 
fight  except  the  vacancy  in  which  she  dwells — a 
dreary  battling.  Mamie’s  unpopularity  passed,  for 
no  better  reason  than  it  had  arrived; — she  was  now. 


278 


WOMEN 


at  nineteen,  the  very  queen  of  the  roost,  and  Elsie, 
wondering  why,  could  only  conclude  that  it  was  be¬ 
cause  Mamie  made  so  much  noise. 

Elsie  had  long  ago  perceived  that,  of  the  girls  she 
knew,  those  who  made  the  loudest  and  most  frequent 
noises  signifying  excitement  and  hilarity  were  the 
ones  about  whom  the  boys  and,  consequently,  the 
other  girls,  most  busily  grouped  themselves.  Natu¬ 
rally,  the  simple  males  went  where  vivacious  sound 
and  gesture  promised  merriment;  and  of  course,  too, 
a  crowd  naturally  gathers  where  something  seems 
to  be  happening.  So  far  as  Elsie  could  see,  the  whole 
art  of  general  social  intercourse  seemed  to  rest  on  an 
ability  to  make  something  appear  to  be  happening 
where  nothing  really  was  happening. 

What  had  always  most  perplexed  her  was  that  the 
proper  method  of  doing  this  seemed  to  be  the  simplest 
thing  in  the  world,  and  was,  nevertheless,  in  her  own 
hands  an  invariable  failure.  She  had  watched 
Mamie  Ford  at  dances  and  at  dinners  where  Mamie 
was  the  life  of  the  party,  and  she  observed  that  in 
addition  to  shouting  over  every  nothing  and  laughing 
ecstatically  without  the  necessity  of  being  inspired 
by  any  detectable  humour,  Mamie  always  offered 
every  possible  evidence — ^flushed  face,  sparkling 


WALLFLOWER 


279 


eyes,  and  unending  gesticulations — that  she  was 
having  a  genuinely  uproarious  “good  time”  herself. 
Elsie  had  tried  it;  she  had  tried  it  until  her  face 
ached;  but  she  remained  only  an  echo  outside  the 
walls.  Nobody  paid  any  attention  to  her. 

Therefore  she  had  no  resource  but  to  infer  what 
she  had  inferred  to-day,  when  the  merry  impromptu 
party  whirled  away  without  a  thought  of  including 
her,  and  when  Paul  Reamer  had  so  carelessly  evaded 
her  urgency — her  shameless  urgency,  as  she  thought, 
weeping  upon  her  coverlet.  This  inference  of  hers 
could  be  only  that  she  had  some  mysterious  ugliness, 
some  strange  stupidity,  and  it  was  this  she  sought  in 
her  mirror,  as  she  had  sought  it  before.  It  evaded 
her  as  it  always  did;  but  she  knew  it  must  be  there. 

“What  is  wrong  about  me.^”  she  murmured,  tasting 
upon  her  lips  the  bitter  salt  of  that  inquiry.  “They 
couldn’t  always  treat  me  like  this  unless  there’s 
something  wrong  about  me.” 

She  was  sure  that  the  wrong  thing  must  be  with 
herself.  The  Hemingways  were  one  of  the  “old 
families”; — they  had  always  taken  a  creditable 
part  in  the  life  of  the  town,  and  the  last  man  of  them, 
her  father,  owned  and  edited  the  principal  newspaper 
of  the  place.  Elsie  had  no  prospect  of  riches,  but 


S80 


WOMEN 


she  was  not  poor;  and  other  girls  with  less  than  she 
were  “popular/’  Therefore  the  wrong  thing  about 
her  could  be  identified  in  nothing  exterior.  More¬ 
over,  when  she  pursued  her  search  for  the  vital 
defect  she  could  not  attribute  it  to  tactlessness;  for 
that  has  some  weight,  and  she  was  weightless.  She 
danced  well,  she  dressed  as  well  as  any  of  the  girls 
did,  and  her  father  told  her  that  she  “talked  well,” 
too; — ^he  said  this  to  her  often,  during  the  long 
evenings  she  spent  with  him  in  his  library.  Yet 
he  was  the  only  one  who  would  listen  to  her,  and, 
though  she  adored  him,  he  was  not  the  audience  she 
most  wanted.  She  “talked  well ” ;  but  even  by  plead¬ 
ing  she  could  not  get  Paul  Reamer  to  spend  five 
minutes  with  her . 

No  wonder!  Paul  was  the  great  beau  of  the  town, 
and  she  the  girl  least  of  all  like  a  belle.  And,  re¬ 
membering  his  plain  consciousness  of  this  contrast, 
almost  ludicrously  expressed  in  his  surprise  that  she 
should  try  to  detain  him  with  her  for  even  a  few 
minutes,  she  shivered  as  she  wept.  She  hated  herself 
for  begging  of  him;  she  hated  herself  for  having 
run  out  of  the  house  to  try  for  the  thousandth  time 
to  be  one  of  a  “crowd”  that  didn’t  want  her;  she 
hated  herself  for  “hanging  around  them,”  laughing 


WALLFLOWER 


281 


and  pretending  that  she  was  one  of  them,  when  any¬ 
body  could  see  she  wasn’t.  She  hated  herself  for 
having  something  wrong  about  her,  and  for  not  being 
able  to  find  out  what  it  was;  she  hated  herself,  and  she 
hated  everything  and  everybody — except  her  father. 

.  .  .  At  dinner  that  evening  he  reproached  her 

for  being  pale.  “I  don’t  believe  you  take  enough 
exercise,”  he  suggested. 

“Yes,  I  do.  I  took  a  long  walk  this  afternoon. 
I  walked  four  or  five  miles.” 

“Did  you?”  He  smiled  under  his  heavy  old- 
fashioned,  gray  lambrequin  of  a  moustache,  and  his 
eyeglasses  showed  a  glint  of  humorous  light.  “That 
doesn’t  sound  as  if  you  went  with  a  girl  companion, 
Elsie!  Four  or  five  miles,  was  it?” 

“I  went  alone,”  she  said,  occupied  with  her  plate. 

His  humorous  manifestations  vanished  and  he 
looked  somewhat  concerned.  “Is  that  so?  It 
might  have  been  jollier  the  other  way,  perhaps.  I 
sometimes  think  I  monopolize  you  too  much,  young 
woman.  For  instance,  you  oughtn’t  to  spend  all 
your  evenings  with  me.  You  ought  to  keep  up  your 
contemporary  friendships  more  than  you  do,  I’m 
afraid.  Why  don’t  you  ask  the  girls  and  boys  here 
to  play  with  you  sometimes?” 


282 


WOMEN 


don’t  want  them.” 

“Would  you  like  to  give  a  dance — or  anything?** 

“No,  Papa.” 

He  sighed.  “I’m  afraid  your  young  friends  bore 
you,  Elsie.” 

“No,”  she  said.  “It  isn’t  that  exactly.  I  just 
- ”  She  left  the  sentence  unfinished. 

“You  just  don’t  take  much  interest  in  ’em,”  he 
laughed. 

“Well — maybe.”  Still  occupied  with  the  food 
before  her,  though  her  being  occupied  with  it  meant 
no  hearty  consumption  of  it,  she  seemed  to  admit 
the  charge.  “Something  like  that.” 

“It  shouldn’t  be  so,”  he  said.  “From  the  little 
I  see  of  ’em  I  shouldn’t  spot  any  of  ’em  for  a  lofty 
intellect  precisely,  but  young  people  of  that  sort  in  a 
moderate-sized  city  like  this  usually  do  seem  to 
older  people  just  a  pack  of  incomprehensible  gigglers 
and  gabblers.  I  suppose  you  never  hear  much  from 
’em  except  personalities  and  pretty  slim  jokes,  and 
it  may  get  tiresome  for  a  girl  as  solid  on  the  Napole¬ 
onic  Period  as  you  are.”  He  paused  to  chuckle. 
“I  don’t  suppose  you  hear  much  discussion  of  Ma¬ 
dame  de  Remusat  among  ’em,  do  you?” 


“No.” 


WALLFLOWER 


283 


“What  I’m  getting  at,”  he  went  on; — “you 
oughtn’t  to  think  too  much  about  intellectual  fodder 
or  be  bored  with  people  your  own  age  because  they 
can’t  offer  it.” 

At  that  she  glanced  wanly  at  him  across  the  table. 
“I’m  not.  Papa.  They  don’t  bore  me.” 

“Then  I  can’t  understand  your  not  seeing  more  of 
’em.  It  isn’t  normal,  and  you’re  missing  a  lot  of  the 
rightful  pleasures  of  youth.  It’s  natural  for  youth  to 
seek  youth,  and  not  to  devote  all  its  time  to  an  old 
codger  like  me.  I  believe  you  need  a  change.”  He 
looked  at  her  severely  and  nodded.  “I’m  serious.” 

“What  change?” 

“Your  aunt  Mildred’s  written  me  again  about 
your  visiting  there,”  he  said.  “Your  cousin  Cornelia 
finished  her  school  last  year.  Now  she’s  home  from 
eight  months  abroad  and  they  really  want  you.” 

“Oh,  no,”  Elsie  said,  quietly,  and  looked  again 
at  her  plate. 

“Why  not?” 

“I  don’t  care  to  go.  Papa.” 

“Why  don’t  you?” 

Her  lip  quivered  a  little,  but  she  controlled  it, 
and  he  saw  no  sign  of  emotion.  “Because  I  wouldn’t 
have  a  good  time.” 


284 


WOMEN 


“I’d  like  to  know  why  you  wouldn’t,”  lie  returned 
a  little  testily.  “Your  aunt  Mildred  is  the  best 
sister  I  had.  She’s  a  pretty  fine  person,  Elsie,  and 
she’s  always  wanted  to  know  you  better.  She  says 
Cornelia’s  turned  out  to  be  a  lovely  young  woman, 
and  they  both  want  you  to  come.  She’s  sure  you’ll 
like  Cornelia.” 

“Maybe  I  would,”  Elsie  said,  moodily.  “That 
isn’t  saying  Cornelia’d  like  me.” 

“Of  all  the  nonsense!”  he  cried,  and  he  laughed 
impatiently.  “How  could  she  help  liking  you? 
Everybody  likes  you,  of  course.  Mildred  says 
Cornelia  has  a  mighty  nice  circle  of  young  people 
about  her;  they  have  such  jolly  times,  it’s  fun  just 
watching  ’em,  Mildred  says;  and  she  enjoys  enter¬ 
taining  a  lot.  They  have  that  big  house  of  theirs, 
and  they’re  near  enough  the  city  to  go  in  for  the 
theatre  when  they  want  to  and - ” 

“I  know,”  Elsie  interrupted.  “They’re  great 
people,  and  it’s  a  big,  fashionable  suburb  and  every¬ 
thing’s  grand!  I’m  not  dreaming  of  going,  Papa.” 

“Aren’t  you?  Well,  I’m  dreaming  of  making 
you,”  he  retorted.  “You  haven’t  been  there  since 
you  were  a  little  girl,  and  your  aunt  says  it’s 
shameful  to  treat  her  as  if  she  lived  in  China,  when 


WALLFLOWER 


285 


it’s  really  only  a  night  or  day’s  run  on  a  Pullman. 
They  want  you  to  come,  and  they  expect  to  give 
you  a  real  splurge,  Elsie.” 

“No,  no,”  she  said,  quickly;  and  if  he  could  have 
seen  her  downcast  eyes  he  might  have  perceived 
that  they  were  terrified.  “Let’s  don’t  talk  of  it. 
Papa.” 

“Let’s  do,”  he  returned,  genially.  “I  suppose 
you  think  that  because  you’re  bored  by  this  little 
set  of  young  people  of  yours,  here,  you’ll  be  bored  by 
Cornelia’s  friends.  I  don’t  know,  but  I’d  at  least 
guess  that  they  might  be  a  little  more  metropolitan, 
though  of  course  young  people  are  pretty  much  the 
same  the  world  over  nowadays.” 

“Yes,”  Elsie  said  in  a  low  voice.  “I’m  sure  they 
would  be.” 

“More  metropolitan,  you  mean?” 

“No,”  Elsie  said.  “I  mean  they’d  be  the  same  as 
these  are  here.” 

“Well,  at  least  you  might  give  ’em  a  try.  They 
might  prove  to  be  more - ” 

“No,”  Elsie  said  again.  “They’d  be  just  the 
same.” 

This  was  the  cause  of  the  obstinacy  that  puzzled 
and  even  provoked  him  during  a  week  of  intermittent 


286 


WOMEN 


arguing  upon  the  matter.  Elsie  was  sure  that  one 
thing  he  said  was  only  too  true:  “Young  people  are 
pretty  much  the  same  the  world  over  nowadays’’; 
and  in  her  imagination  she  could  conjure  up  no  pic¬ 
ture  of  herself  occupying  among  her  cousin  Cornelia 
Cromwell’s  friends  a  position  different  from  that  she 
held  among  her  own.  They  would  be  polite  to  her 
for  the  first  hour  or  so,  she  knew,  and  then  they 
would  do  to  her  what  had  always  been  done  to  her. 
They  would  treat  her  as  a  weightless  presence,  in¬ 
visible  and  inaudible,  a  left-outer. 

Her  aunt  and  Cornelia  would  expect  much  of  her; 
and  they  would  be  kind  in  their  disappointment; 
but  they  would  have  her  on  their  hands  and  secretly 
look  forward  to  the  relief  of  her  departure.  Elsie 
could  predict  it  all,  and  in  sorry  imaginings  foresee 
the  weariness  of  her  aunt  and  cousin  as  they  would 
daily  renew  the  task  of  privately  goading  reluctant 
young  men  and  preoccupied  girls  to  appear  conscious 
that  she  was  a  human  being,  not  air.  The  visit 
would  mean  only  a  new  failure,  a  new  one  on  a 
grander  scale  than  the  old  failure  at  home.  The 
old  one  was  enough  for  her;  she  was  used  to  it,  and 
the  surroundings  at  least  were  familiar.  The  more 


WALLFLOWER  m 

her  father  urged  her,  the  more  she  was  terrified  by 
what  he  urged. 

“IVe  made  up  my  mind  to  compel  you,”  he  told 
her  one  evening  in  the  library.  “I’m  serious,  Elsie.” 

She  did  not  look  up  from  her  book,  but  responded 
quietly:  “I’m  twenty.  Women  are  of  age  in  this 
state  at  eighteen.  Papa.” 

“Are  they?  I  wrote  your  aunt  yesterday  that 
you’re  coming.” 

“I  wrote  her  yesterday,  too.  I  told  her  I 
couldn’t.” 

“No  other  explanation?” 

“Of  course  I  said  you  needed  me  to  run  the  house. 
Papa.” 

“I  didn’t  bring  you  up  to  tell  untruths,”  he  said. 
“You’ve  learned,  it  seems;  but  this  one  won’t  do 
you  any  good.  You’re  going,  Elsie,  and  if  you  want 
some  new  dresses  or  hats  or  things  you’d  better  be 
ordering  ’em.  You  don’t  seem  to  understand  I  really 
mean  it.” 

She  dropped  her  book  in  her  lap  and  sighed  pro- 
foimdly.  “What  for?”  she  asked.  “Why  do  you 
make  such  a  point  of  it?” 

“Because  I’ve  been  watching  you  and  thinking 


£88 


WOlVIEN 


about  you,  and  I  don’t  believe  I’m  doing  my  duty 
by  you.  Not  as” — ^his  voice  showed  feeling — “not 
as  your  mother  would  have  me  do  it.  Sometimes 
you  cheer  up  and  joke  with  me,  but  I  don’t  believe 
you’re  happy.” 

“But  I  am.” 

“You’re  not,”  he  returned  with  conviction.  “And 
the  reason  is,  you  lead  too  monotonous  a  life.  A 
monotonous  life  suits  elderliness,  but  it  isn’t  normal 
for  youth.  Really,  you’re  getting  to  lead  the  life 
of  a  recluse,  and  I  won’t  have  it.  If  these  provincial 
young  people  here  bore  you  so  that  you  won’t  run 
about  and  play  with  them  as  the  other  girls  do,  why 
then  you’ve  got  to  try  a  different  kind  of  young 
people.” 

“But  you  said  young  people  were  all  the  same. 
Papa,  the  world  over;  and  it’s  true.” 

“At  least,”  he  insisted,  “your  cousin  Cornelia’s 
will  have  different  faces,  and  you’re  going  to  go  and 
look  at  ’em.  Elsie,  you’re  not  having  a  good  time, 
and  one  way  or  another  I’ve  got  to  make  you.  You 
need  a  new  view  of  some  kind;  you’ve  got  to  be 
shaken  out  of  this  hermit  habit  you’ve  fallen  into.” 

“Papa,  please,”  she  said,  appealingly.  “I  don’t 
want  to  go.  Don’t  make  me.  Please!” 


WALLFLOWER  289 

At  this  he  rose  from  his  chair  and  came  to  her  and 
took  one  of  her  hands  in  his.  The  room  was  warm, 
and  she  sat  near  the  fire;  but  the  slender  hand  he 
held  was  cold.  “Elsie,  I  want  you  to,”  he  said.  “I 
don’t  want  to  think  your  mother  might  reproach  me 
for  not  making  you  do  what  seems  best  for  you. 
Let  me  wire  your  aunt  to-morrow  you’ll  come  next 
week.” 

Her  lower  lip  moved  pathetically,  and  along  her 
eyelids  a  liquid  tremulousness  twinkled  too  brightly. 
“I  couldn’t - ”  she  began. 

“Don’t  tell  me  that  any  more,  Elsie.” 

“No,”  she  said,  meekly.  “I  meant  I  couldn’t 
get  ready  until  week  after  next.  Papa — or  the  week 
after  that.  I  couldn’t  go  before  December,  Not 
before  then,  please.  Papa.” 

He  patted  her  hand  and  laughed;  pleased  that 
she  would  be  obedient;  touched  that  she  was  so 
reluctant  to  leave  him.  “That’s  the  girl!  You’ll 
have  a  glorious  time,  Elsie;  see  if  you  don’t!”  he 
said,  and,  looking  down  tenderly  upon  her  shining 
eyes,  never  suspected  the  true  anguish  that  was  there. 


xxiir 


THE  STRANGE  MIRROR 


IT  WAS  still  there,  and  all  the  keener,  when 
Elsie  dressed  before  the  French  mirror  in  the 
big  and  luxurious  bedchamber  to  which  she  had 
been  shown  on  her  arrival  at  her  aunt’s  house. 

“Mrs.  Cromwell  and  Miss  Cornelia  had  an  en¬ 
gagement  they  couldn’t  break.  They  said  for  me  to 
say  they’re  sorry  they  couldn’t  be  here  when  you 
came,”  a  maid  told  her.  “Mrs.  Cromwell  said  tell 
you  she’s  giving  a  dinner  for  you  and  Miss  Cornelia 
this  evening.  It’s  set  for  early  because  they’re 
going  to  theatricals  and  dancing  somewheres  else 
afterward,  so  she  thought  p’raps  you  better  begin 
dressing  soon  as  your  trunk  gets  here.  They’ll  have 
to  dress  in  a  hurry,  theirselves,  so  you  may  not 
see  ’em  till  dinner.” 

But  Elsie  did  not  have  to  wait  that  long.  Half 
an  hour  later,  when  she  had  begun  to  dress,  Cornelia 
rushed  in,  all  fur  and  cold  rosy  cheeks.  She  em¬ 
braced  the  visitor  impetuously.  “D’you  mind  bein’ 

290 


THE  STRANGE  MIRROR  291 

hugged  by  a  bear?”  she  asked.  ‘T  couldn’t  wait 
even  to  take  off  my  coat,  because  I  remembered 
what  an  awf’ly  nice  little  thing  you  were!  Do  you 
know  we  haven’t  seen  each  other  for  nine  years?” 
She  stepped  back  with  her  hands  upon  Elsie’s 
shoulders.  “I’ve  got  to  fly  and  dress,”  she  said, 
“ilfy  but  you’re  lovely!” 

With  that,  she  turned  and  scurried  out  of  the  room, 
leaving  behind  her  a  mingled  faint  scent  of  fur  and 
violets,  and  the  impression  upon  Elsie  that  this 
cousin  of  hers  was  the  prettiest  girl  she  had  ever 
seen. 

Cornelia’s  good  looks  terrified  her  the  more. 
Probably  there  were  other  girls  as  pretty  as  that 
among  Cornelia’s  friends,  the  people  she  was  to 
meet  to-night.  And  Cornelia’s  rush  into  the  room, 
her  flashing  greeting,  so  impulsive,  and  her  quick 
flight  away  were  all  flavoured  with  that  dashingness 
with  which  Elsie  felt  she  could  never  compete, 
“ilfy,  but  you’re  lovely!”  was  sweet  of  Cornelia, 
Elsie  thought.  But  girls  usually  said  things  like 
that  to  their  girl  visitors — especially  when  the  visitors 
had  just  arrived.  Besides,  anybody  could  see  that 
Cornelia  was  as  kind  as  she  was  pretty. 

but  you’re  lovely!”  was  pleasant  to  hear. 


292 


WOMEN 


even  from  an  impulsive  cousin,  yet  it  was  of  no  great 
help  to  Elsie.  She  went  on  with  her  dressing,  looking 
unhappily  into  the  glass  and  thinking  of  what  irony 
there  had  been  in  her  father’s  persistence.  “To 
make  me  have  a  ‘good  time’!”  she  thought.  “As 
if  I  wouldn’t  have  had  one  at  home,  if  I  could !  But 
of  course  he  didn’t  know  that.” 

She  was  so  afraid  of  what  was  before  her,  and  so 
certain  she  was  foredoomed,  that  during  this  troubled 
hour  she  learned  the  meaning  of  an  old  phrase  de¬ 
scribing  fear;  for  she  was  indeed  “sick  with  appre¬ 
hension.”  She  took  some  spirits  of  ammonia  in  a 
glass  of  water  as  a  remedy  for  that  sickness.  “Oh, 
Papa !  ”  she  moaned.  “  What  have  you  done  to  me?  ” 

The  maid  who  had  brought  her  to  her  room  re¬ 
appeared  with  a  bouquet  of  rosebuds  and  lilies  of  the 
valley,  to  be  worn.  “It’s  from  one  of  the  gentlemen 
that’s  coming  to  dinner.  Miss  Cornelia  said.  He 
sent  two.  Pr’aps  I  could  pin  it  on  for  you.” 

Elsie  let  her  render  this  service,  and  when  it  was 
done  the  woman  smiled  admiringly.  “It  certainly 
becomes  you,”  she  said.  “I  might  say  it  looks  like 
you.” 

Elsie  regarded  her  with  a  stare  so  wide  and  blank 
that  the  maid  thought  her  probably  haughty.  “Ex- 


THE  STRANGE  MIRROR  293 

cuse  me,  ma’am.  Could  I  be  of  any  more  assist¬ 
ance?” 

“No,  thank  you,”  Elsie  said,  still  staring,  and 
turned  again  to  the  mirror  as  the  flatterer  left  the 
room. 

The  bouquet  was  beautiful,  and,  before  the  evening 
was  over,  the  unknown  gentleman  who  had  sent  it 
would  be  of  a  mind  that  the  joke  was  on  him,  Elsie 
thought.  The  misplaced  blarney  of  an  Irishwoman 
had  amazed  but  not  cheered  her;  and  the  clock  on 
the  mantel-shelf  warned  her  that  the  time  was  ten 
minutes  before  seven.  She  took  some  more  ammonia. 

The  next  moment  into  the  room  came  her  aunt, 
large,  decorously  glittering,  fundamentally  import¬ 
ant.  She  was  also  warm-hearted,  and  she  took  her 
niece  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her  as  if  she  wanted  to 
kiss  her.  Then  she  did  as  Cornelia  had  done — held 
her  at  arm’s  length  and  looked  at  her.  “You  dear 
child!”  she  said.  “I’ve  wanted  so  long  to  get  hold 
of  you.  A  man  never  knows  how  to  bring  up  a  girl; 
she  has  to  do  it  all  herself.  You’ve  done  it  excel¬ 
lently,  I  can  see,  Elsie.  You  have  lovely  taste; 
that’s  just  the  dress  I’d  have  picked  out  for  you 
myself.  And  to  think  I  haven’t  seen  you  since  your 
dear  mother  left  us!  Cornelia  hasn’t  seen  you  for 


294 


WOMEN 


much  longer  than  that — you  and  she  haven’t  had 
a  glimpse  of  each  other  since  you  were  ten  or  eleven 
years  old.” 

“Yes,”  Elsie  said.  “I  saw  her  a  little  while  ago.” 
She  gulped  feebly,  and  by  a  great  efiort  kept  her 
voice  steady.  “Aunt  Mildred,  how  proud  of  her 
you  must  be !  I  want  to  tell  you  something ;  I  think 
Cornelia  is  the  very  prettiest  girl  I’ve  ever  seen  in 
my  whole  life.” 

Mrs.  Cromwell  took  her  hands  from  her  niece’s 
shoulders,  and,  smiling,  stepped  backward  a  pace 
and  shook  her  head.  “No,”  she  said.  “Cornelia’s 
very  pretty,  but  she  isn’t  that  pretty.” 

“I  think  she  is.” 

“No.”  Mrs.  Cromwell  laughed;  then  became 
serious.  She  swept  a  look  over  her  niece  from  head 
to  foot — the  accurately  estimating  scrutiny  of  an 
intelligent  and  experienced  woman  who  is  careful  to 
be  an  honest  mother.  “Of  course  Cornelia  isn’t  in 
your  class,”  she  said,  quietly. 

Then  she  turned  to  the  door.  “Come  down  to 
the  drawing-room  a  minute  or  so  before  seven,”  she 
said,  and  was  gone. 

Elsie  stood,  cataleptic. 

The  words  seemed  to  linger  upon  the  stirred  air 


THE  STRANGE  MIRROR 


295 


of  the  spacious  room.  ‘‘Of  course  Cornelia  isn’t  in 
your  class.”  Cornelia’s  mother  had  not  intended  to 
be  satirical;  she  had  been  perfectly  serious  and 
direct,  and  she  had  really  meant  that  Cornelia,  not 
Elsie,  was  of  the  lower  class  of  prettiness.  Here  were 
three  dumfounding  things  in  a  row:  “Afy,  but  you’re 
lovely!”  “It  certainly  becomes  you — I  might  say  it 
looks  like  you.”  “Of  course  Cornelia  isn’t  in  your 
class.”  The  third  was  the  astounding  climax  that 
now  made  the  first  two  almost — almost  convincing! 

Elsie  rushed  to  the  long  mirror  and  in  a  turmoil 
of  bewilderment  gazed  and  gazed  at  what  she  saw 
there.  And  as  she  looked,  there  slowly  came  a  little 
light  that  grew  to  be  a  sparkling  in  those  startled 
eyes  of  hers;  her  lips  parted;  breathlessly  she  smiled 
a  little; — then,  all  in  a  flash,  radiantly.  For  what 
she  saw  in  the  mirror  was  charming.  No  fear  of 
hers,  no  long  experience  of  neglect,  could  deny  it; 
and  at  last  she  was  sure  that  whatever  the  wrong 
thing  about  her  was,  it  could  be  nothing  she  would 
ever  see  in  a  mirror.  She  was  actually  what  at  home 
she  had  sometimes  suspected  and  then  believed  im¬ 
possible. 

She  was  beautiful — and  knew  it! 

Marvelling,  trembling  with  timid  and  formless 


296 


WOMEN 


premonitions  of  rapture,  she  stood  aglow  in  the 
revelation.  She  leaned  closer  to  the  mirror  and 
spoke  to  it  in  a  low  voice,  almost  brokenly:  “i/y, 
but  you’re  lovely — I  might  say  it  looks  like  you — 
of  course  she  isn’t  in  your  class!” 

Then,  with  new  and  strange  stars  in  her  eyes,  this 
sudden  Cinderella  went  out  of  her  room  and  down 
the  wide  stairway,  dazed  but  not  afraid.  The  mir¬ 
acle  had  already  touched  her. 

Her  uncle  met  her  at  the  doorway  of  the  drawing¬ 
room.  “This  is  not  little  Elsie!”  he  said.  “Why, 
good  heavens,  your  father  didn’t  write  us  his  Elsie 
had  grown  up  into  anything  like  you!  ” 

Immediately  he  took  her  upon  his  arm  and  turned 
to  cross  the  room  with  her,  going  toward  the  dozen 
young  people  clustered  about  Cornelia. 

But  Cornelia  came  running  to  her  cousin.  “You’re 
dazzling!”  she  whispered,  and  it  was  obvious  that 
Cornelia’s  friends  had  the  same  impression.  They 
stopped  talking  abruptly  as  Elsie  entered  the 
room,  and  they  remained  in  an  eloquent  state  of 
silence  until  Cornelia  began  to  make  their  names 
known  to  the  visitor.  Even  after  that,  they  talked 
in  lowered  voices  until  they  went  out  to  the  dining¬ 


room. 


XXIV 


TRANSFIGUEATION 


,HEY  were  livelier  at  the  table,  but  not 
nearly  so  noisy  as  Mamie  Ford  and  Paul 
Reamer  and  their  intimates  would  have 


been  at  a  dinner  party  at  home,  Elsie  thought; 
though  this  was  but  a  hasty  and  vague  comparison 
flitting  through  her  mind.  She  was  not  able  to 
think  definitely  about  anything  for  a  time:  she  was 
too  dazzled  by  being  dazzling.  Her  clearest  thought 
was  an  inquiry:  Was  this  she,  herself,  and,  if  she 
was  indeed  Elsie  Hemingway,  were  these  queer, 
kind,  new  people  now  about  her  quite  sane? 

The  tall  young  man  with  the  long  face  who  sat 
at  her  left  talked  to  her  as  much  as  he  could,  being 
hampered  by  the  circumstance  that  the  fair-haired 
short  young  man  on  her  right  did  his  best  to  talk  to 
her  all  the  time,  except  when  she  spoke.  Then 
both  of  them  listened  with  deference;  and  so  did 
a  third  young  man  directly  across  the  table 
from  her.  More  than  that,  she  could  not  look 


297 


298 


WOMEN 


about  her  without  encountering  the  withdrawing 
glances  of  other  guests  of  both  sexes,  though  some 
of  these  glances,  not  from  feminine  orbs,  were  in  no 
polite  flurry  to  withdraw,  but  remained  thoughtfully 
upon  her  as  long  as  she  looked  their  way.  Could  it 
be  Elsie  Hemingway  upon  whom  fond  eyes  of  youth 
thus  so  sweetly  lingered? 

Too  centred  upon  the  strange  experience  to  think 
much  about  these  amazing  people  except  as  adjuncts 
to  her  transfiguration,  she  nevertheless  decided  that 
she  liked  best  the  tall  gentleman  at  her  left.  He  was 
not  so  young  as  the  others,  appearing  to  be  as  far 
advanced  toward  middle-age  as  twenty-seven — or 
possibly  even  twenty-nine — and  she  decided  that  his 
long,  irregular  face  was  “interesting.”  She  asked 
him  to  “straighten  out  the  names”  of  the  others  for 
her,  hoping  that  he  would  straighten  out  his  own 
before  he  finished. 

He  began  with  Lily  Dodge.  “Owr  prettiest  girl,” 
he  explained,  honestly  unconscious  of  what  his  em¬ 
phasis  implied.  “That  is,  she’s  been  generally 
considered  so  since  your  cousin  Anne  was  married. 
The  young  man  on  Miss  Dodge’s  right  and  in  such 
a  plain  state  of  devotion  is  named  Henry  Burnett 
just  now.” 


TRANSFIGURATION  299 

“Just  now?  Does  his  name  change  from  time 
to  time?’’ 

“Poor  Henry’s  doesn’t,  no;  nor  the  condition  in 
which  Miss  Dodge  keeps  him — probably  because 
she  likes  to  win  golf  tournament  cups  with  him.  I 
mean,  the  next  time  you  see  her  at  a  dinner  the 
man  beside  her  in  that  state  may  have  another 
name.  She  changes  ’em.” 

“I  see,”  Elsie  said.  She  looked  absently  at  Miss 
Dodge,  not  aware  that  there  could  be  anything  in 
common  between  them,  much  less  that  in  a  manner 
they  had  shared  a  day  of  agony,  no  great  while  past. 
“She  seems  very  lovely.” 

“In  her  own  way,  yes,”  her  neighbour  returned 
without  enthusiasm.  “The  man  on  her  left - ” 

Elsie  laughed  and  interrupted.  “What  I  meant 
to  get  at — if  you  don’t  mind — was  the  name  of  the 
man  on  my  left!” 

“Of  course  you  wouldn’t  have  caught  it,”  he  said. 
“You  naturally  wouldn’t  remember,  hearing  it 
spoken  with  the  others.” 

“No,”  she  said.  “Yet  I  think  I  do  remember 
that  Cornelia  spoke  it  a  little  more  impressively 
than  she  did  any  of  theirs.” 

“That’s  only  because  I’m  in  her  father’s  firm. 


300  WOMEN 

The  most  junior  member,  of  course.  They  use  me 
as  a  waste-basket.’’ 

“As  what?” 

“A  waste-basket.  When  Mr.  Cromwell  and  the 
really  important  partners  discover  some  bits  of 
worthless  business  cluttering  up  the  office  they  fill 
me  up  with  it.  Every  good  office  has  a  young  waste- 
basket.  Miss  Hemingway.” 

“But  you  haven’t  yet  told  me  this  one’s  name.” 

“Harley.” 

He  laughed  ruefully,  and  she  asked  why.  “Harley 
doesn’t  seem  a  funny  name  to  me,”  she  said.  “I 
don’t  understand  your  laughing.” 

“It’s  to  keep  from  crying,”  he  explained.  “My 
father  was  dead  before  I  was  born  and  my  mother 
died  just  after.  I  was  taken  over  by  my  grandfather, 
and  he  named  me  for  three  of  Napoleon’s  marshals — 
Berthier  Ney  Junot  Harley.  It  takes  a  grandfather 
to  do  things  like  that  to  you!” 

“But  Junot  wasn’t  a  marshal,”  Elsie  said.  “He 
hoped  to  be,  but  the  Emperor  never  made  him  one; 
Junot  was  too  flighty.” 

Mr.  Harley  stared.  “I  remember  that’s  true; — 
I  spoke  of  three  marshals  hastily.  I  should  have  said 
two  and  a  general.  My  grandfather  brought  me 


TRANSFIGURATION  301 

up  on  ’em,  and  I  still  collect  First  Empire  books. 
But  imagine  your  knowing!” 

“You  mean  you  think  I  don’t  look - ” 

He  interrupted  earnestly.  “I’m  afraid  it’s  too 
soon  for  you  to  let  me  tell  you  how  I  think 
you  look.  But  you  do  laugh  at  my  names,  don’t 
you.^” 

“No;  they  don’t  seem  funny  to  me.” 

“Don’t  you  ever  laugh  except  when  things  are 
funny. he  asked. 

“Yes,  I  do,”  she  said.  “I’ve  laughed  thousands 
of  times  when  everything  was  horribly  unfunny.” 

“Then  why  did  you  laugh?” 

For  an  instant  she  looked  at  him  gravely.  “To 
try  to  be  ‘popular,’”  she  said. 

Plainly  he  thought  this  funny  enough  for  laughter. 
“That  is  a  joke!”  he  said.  “But  if  laughing  makes 
you  any  more  ‘popular’  than  you  would  be  without 
it,  I  hope  for  this  one  evening  at  least  you’ll  be  as 
solemn  as  an  obelisk.” 

Of  course  Elsie  said,  “Why?” 

“Because  if  you  laugh  I  won’t  get  to  see  anything 
of  you  at  all.  I’m  afraid  I  won’t  anyhow.” 

He  spoke  with  gravity,  meaning  what  he  said; 
and  the  event  proved  his  fear  justified.  He  got 


302  WOMEN 

halfway  round  the  country-club  ballroom  with  her, 
after  the  theatricals,  a  surprising  number  of  times, 
but  seldom  much  farther.  However,  he  conclusively 
proved  his  possession  of  that  admirable  quality, 
dogged  persistence,  and  so  did  the  other  young  gen¬ 
tlemen  of  the  dinner  party.  So  did  more  than  these, 
including  probably  a  majority  of  the  men  and  youths, 
married  or  single,  present  that  evening  at  the  Blue 
Hills  Club. 

Elsie  wondered  when  the  spell  would  break.  It 
seemed  impossible  that  she  wouldn’t  be  found  out 
presently  as  a  masquerader  and  dropped  into  her 
old  homelike  invisibility.  But  whether  the  break 
came  or  not,  she  knew  she  would  never  again  be  so 
miserable  as  she  had  been,  because  she  was  every 
moment  more  and  more  confidently  daring  to  know 
that  she  was  beautiful.  She  laughed  at  a  great 
many  things  that  weren’t  funny  during  this  gracious 
evening;  for  laughter  may  spring  as  freely  from 
excited  happiness  as  from  humour;  but  she  made 
no  effort  to  be  noisy — noisiness  appeared  to  be  not  a 
necessity  at  all,  but  superfluous.  And  what  pleased 
her  most,  the  girls  were  “nice”  to  her,  too,  as  she 
defined  their  behaviour; — they  formed  part  of  the 
clusters  about  her  when  the  music  was  silent,  and 


TRANSFIGURATION 


303 


they  eagerly  competed  to  arrange  future  entertain¬ 
ment  for  her.  Elsie  loved  them  all,  these  strange, 
adorable  people  who  had  not  seen  the  wrong  thing 
about  her. 

The  old  walls  built  round  her  by  her  own  town, 
enclosing  her  with  such  seeming  massive  permanence 
and  so  tightly,  now  at  a  stroke  proved  to  be  illusion; 
she  was  discovering  that  they  were  but  apparitions 
all  unreal,  and  that  this  world  is  mysterious  and  can 
be  happily  so.  Something  of  its  humorous  mysteries 
in  dealing  with  young  hearts  another  person,  near 
her,  also  learned  that  night;  for  Cornelia  Cromwell, 
by  coincidence,  had  a  queer  experience  of  her  own. 

Beyond  the  outer  fringe  of  dancers  she  saw  her 
mother  standing  among  a  group  of  the  older  people; — 
one  of  these  was  Miss  Bailey,  the  principal  of  the 
suburban  school  in  which  Cornelia  had  once  been  a 
pupil.  Cornelia  had  not  seen  her  for  several  years 
and  went  conscientiously  to  greet  her.  Principal 
and  former  pupil  made  the  appropriate  exchanges; 
but  Cornelia  was  rather  vague  with  the  grayish 
gentleman  who  had  Miss  Bailey  upon  his  arm. 

Mrs.  Cromwell  said  something  as  in  correction  of 
an  error;  but  it  was  too  late,  and  the  couple  had 
moved  away  before  Cornelia  understood. 


304 


WOMEN 


“You  called  her  Miss  Bailey,”  Mrs.  Cromwell 
explained.  “She’s  been  married  to  Professor  Brom¬ 
ley  for  two  years.” 

“What!  Was  that  funny  little  old - ”  Cornelia 

checked  herself;  but  the  tactful  mother  had  already 
turned  away  to  speak  to  someone  else.  The  daugh¬ 
ter  stood  and  gazed  at  the  stiff  little  old-fashioned 
gentleman  standing  punctiliously  arm-in-arm  with 
his  wife.  “Oh,  dear  me/”  Cornelia  whispered. 

Then  she  ran  back,  wide-eyed,  to  rejoin  an  anxious 
lad  who  had  arrived  late.  “Look  here,”  he  said. 
“You’ve  missed  another  chance  to  let  me  meet  your 
cousin.  What  did  you  run  away  like  that  for?” 

“To  learn  something  important,”  Cornelia  told 
him.  “Come  on; — ^I’ll  get  you  through  to  Elsie 
somehow.” 

For  the  unmasking  of  Elsie,  that  dreaded  break 
in  the  spell,  still  postponed  itself  as  the  evening  wore 
on.  Her  miraculous  night  continued  to  be  a  miracle 
to  the  end,  and  she  was  a  girl  grateful  for  wonders 
when  she  talked  them  over  with  her  cousin  in  the 
big  bedroom,  after  two  o’clock  in  the  morning. 

“I  never  met  such  darling  people  in  the  whole 
world!”  she  declared.  “I  never  knew - ” 


“What  nonsense ! ”  Cornelia  laughed.  “ You  must 


TRANSFIGURATION  305 

be  perfectly  used  to  being  a  sensation  wherever  you 
go,  Elsie.” 

“A  ‘sensation’?”  Elsie  cried. 

“Don’t  tell  me  you  don’t  know  it!” 

“Cornelia,  you  don’t  understand.  Nobody  was 
ever  really  nice  to  me  at  a  party  before  to-night  in 
my  whole  life.” 

At  that  her  cousin  beamed  upon  her.  “I  believe 
that’s  what  I  like  best  of  all  about  you,  Elsie.” 

“You  mean  nobody  ever  being  nice  to  me  before?” 

“No,”  Cornelia  laughed.  “I  mean  your  not 
admitting  that  you  know  it.  Of  course  you  do 
know,  because  it’s  impossible  for  a  girl  like  you  not 
to  realize  the  ejffect  you  have  on  people;  but  I  love 
you  for  pretending  you  don’t  see  it.” 

“But  it’s  true,”  Elsie  insisted.  “Until  to-night 
nobody  ever - ” 

“Yes,  yes!  Go  on!  It’s  very  becoming,  and  it’s 
what  placates  the  other  girls  so  that  you  get  both 
sexes  in  your  train,  you  clever  thing!” 

“I’m  not  clever,  though,”  the  visitor  protested. 
“I’m  no  good  at  all  at  pretending  things.  I’m 
not - ” 

“Aren’t  you?”  Cornelia  laughed.  “Well,  it’s 
nice  of  you  to  try  to  be  modest,  then.  Your  thinking 


306 


WOMEN 


you  ought  to  be  is  one  of  your  charms.  It  isn’t 
the  biggest  one,  though.  Everybody  saw  that  one 
the  instant  you  came  downstairs  to-night  and  stood 
in  the  drawing-room  doorway,  just  before  Father 
went  to  bring  you  in.  It  was  very  striking,  Elsie.” 
“I  don’t  know  what  you  mean.” 

“That’s  right;  you  oughtn’t  to  know,”  Cornelia 
said,  seriously.  “It  has  to  be  spontaneous,  I  suppose, 
and  it  probably  can’t  be  imitated  or  done  deliber¬ 
ately.” 

“But  I  didn’t  do  anything!’^  Elsie  cried. 

“I  know  you  didn’t;  that’s  just  what  I’m  pointing 
out.  Maybe  it  was  something  they  call  ‘magnetism’; 
but  anyhow  it  was  more  than  just  being  a  beauty. 

Of  course  you’re  that - ” 

“Nobody  ever  told  me  so;  not  before - ” 

“Nonsense!”  Cornelia  interrupted;  then  she  went 
on:  “It  seemed  to  lie  in  not  only  being  a  beauty,  but 
in  being  a  beauty  with  a  kind  of  glow.  I  don’t 
know  just  how  else  to  express  it,  because  it’s  better 
than  having  what  they  call  the  ‘come  hither’  look. 
It  was — well,  charmy  I  suppose.  People  might  never 
notice  that  a  beauty  is  a  beauty  if  she  doesn’t  have 
something  of  it.  But  ‘charm’  is  too  vague  to  express 
it  exactly.  It  was  a  look  as  if — as  if - ”  Cornelia 


TRANSFIGUUATION 


307 


hesitated,  groping.  “Well,  I  can’t  find  any  way  to 
tell  it  except  to  say  it  was  as  if  you  knew  something 
mysterious  and  lovely  about  yourself.  And  it  makes 
everybody  else  crazy  to  know  it,  too!” 

She  jumped  up,  pointing  at  the  clock  upon  the 
mantel.  “Good  heavens!  And  we’ve  got  engage¬ 
ments  for  every  minute  of  the  next  two  weeks,  be¬ 
ginning  at  half -past  eight  to-morrow  morning !  Don’t 
bother  to  put  those  flowers  in  water,  Elsie;  it’d  only 
be  a  waste.  There’ll  be  more  to-morrow!” 

“I’d  like  to  keep  these,”  Elsie  said.  “I  think  I’d 
like  to  keep  them  forever.” 

“Dear  me!  Did  he  make  that  great  an  impresion 
on  you?” 

“Who?” 

“Elsie,  you  are  a  hypocrite!  Berthier  Ney  Junot 
Harley!” 

“I  didn’t  even  know  it  was  he  that  sent  them.  I 
wanted  to  keep  them  because  they’d  remind  me  of 
— of  everything.” 

And  when  Cornelia,  touched  by  the  way  this  was 
spoken,  had  kissed  her  fondly  and  gone  out,  Elsie 
put  the  pretty  bouquet  in  a  vase  of  water.  Then 
she  took  one  of  the  rosebuds  from  the  cluster  of 
them  and  pinned  it  upon  her  breast  for  the  night. 


308 


WOMEN 


She  had  liked  Berthier  Harley  best;  but  it  was  not 
on  his  account  that  she  wore  his  rosebud  through  her 
dreams;  it  was  to  remind  her  of — of  everything! 

She  awoke  early,  smiling,  and  the  bright  wings  of 
all  her  new  fairy  memories  were  fluttering  in  her  heart. 
Then,  reflecting,  she  became  incredulous.  Somewhere 
she  had  heard  that  every  girl,  no  matter  what  her 
looks,  has  one  night  in  her  life  when  she  is  beautiful. 
Her  own  night  had  come  at  last;  she  could  never 
doubt  that.  But  what  if  it  were  the  only  one? 
i  She  jumped  up  and  ran  to  the  mirror.  No; — 
tousled  and  flushed  from  warm  and  happy  sleep,  still 
drowsy,  too,  she  was  beautiful  in  the  early  sunshine. 
She  knew  it,  and  it  was  true.  Last  night  had  been 
her  night,  but  it  was  not  to  be  her  only  nigjit; — 
and  so,  half  laughing  in  her  delight,  she  nodded 
charmingly  to  this  charming  mirror  and  began  to 
think  about  what  clothes  to  wear  for  the  flrst  day  of 
her  triumphant  visit.  She  had  no  serious  doubt  now 
that  it  would  remain  triumphant,  and  so  long  as  she 
kept  upon  her  that  glamour  Cornelia  had  described 
as  the  look  of  ‘‘knowing  something  mysterious  and 
lovely”  about  herself,  Elsie  was  right  not  to  doubt. 
She  kept  the  look,  and  the  longer  she  kept  it,  the 
easier  it  was  to  keep.  Her  visit  was  all  glorious. 


XXV 


GLAMOR  CAN  BE  KEPT 


Young  Mr.  Paul  Reamer  had  been  away, 
too,  that  winter.  With  no  profession  or  busi¬ 
ness  to  localize  his  attention,  and  a  heritage 
sufficient  to  afford  him  comfortable  wandering,  he 
had  “tried  California  for  a  change,”  as  he  said;  and 
on  his  return  he  went  at  once  to  tell  Miss  Ford 
about  Hollywood.  She  was  not  at  home;  but  he 
waited; — she  came  in  presently,  and  made  a  satis¬ 
factory  noise  over  him. 

“To  think  of  my  not  being  here  when  you  came!” 
she  exclaimed  when  she  had  reached  a  point  of  more 
subdued  demonstrations.  “I’d  just  run  over  to 

Elsie’s  for  half  an  hour - 

“Where?” 

“To  Elsie’s.  I  spend  about  half  my  time  there, 
I  expect,  and - ” 

“You  do?  ”  He  looked  puzzled  and  a  little  amused. 
“What  for?” 

“Why,  everybody  does,”  Mamie  returned,  sur- 

309 


310 


WOMEN 


prised.  “That  is,  when  she’s  home.  She’s  away  a 
good  deal  of  the  time,  you  know.” 

“You  mean  Elsie  Hemingway?” 

“Why,  naturally.  What  other  Elsie  is  there?” 

“I  don’t  know.”  He  looked  more  puzzled  and 
more  amused.  “You  say,  ‘everybody’  spends  about 
half  the  time  there?”  He  laughed.  “That  sounds 
funny!  What  on  earth’s  made  her  house  such  a 
busy  place  all  of  a  sudden?” 

“Oh,  it  isn’t  sudden,”  Mamie  said,  and  she  added, 
reflectively,  “You  know  Elsie  always  was  about  the 
hest-loohing  girl  in  town.” 

“Oh,  possibly.  It  never  seemed  to  get  anywhere 
though,”  he  returned.  “She’s  good-looking  all  right, 
I  suppose,  but  not  the  way  anybody  would  ever 
notice.” 

“What?”  Mamie  cried.  “Why,  you  don’t  know 
what  you’re  talking  about!” 

“I  don’t?”  He  laughed  incredulously.  “Look 
here.  What  is  all  this  about  little  Elsie  Hemingway? 
When  I  left  town - ” 

Miss  Ford  interrupted:  “Have  you  seen  old 
Fred  yet?” 

“No.  I  haven’t  seen  anybody.” 


GLAMOUR  CAN  BE  KEPT 


311 


“Well,  you’d  better  see  old  Fred  and  ask  him 
*What  is  all  this  about  little  Elsie  Hemingway?’ 
He’ll  probably  fall  in  your  arms  and  burst  right  out 
crying!” 

“What  for?” 

“Why,  for  the  same  reason  some  of  the  others 
would  do  the  same  thing!” 

Paul  shook  his  head.  “I  don’t  think  it’s  friendly 
to  try  to  fill  me  up  with  fairy  stories,  Mamie — not 
just  the  first  minute  after  I’ve  come  home  anyhow. 

When  I  went  away - ” 

“Oh,  there’ ve  been  lots  of  changes,”  Miss  Ford 
assured  him.  “You’ll  have  to  get  used  to  ’em. 
We’ve  been  used  to  the  change  about  Elsie  so  long 
now  I  suppose  we  hardly  realize  there  was  a  change. 
I  guess  what  happened  was  that  we  never  used  to 
appreciate  her,  and  she  had  a  way  of  not  seeming  to 
feel  she  counted  much,  herself;  but  now  we’ve  got  a 

little  older  and  have  more  sense,  or  something,  and 
we  all  see  what  a  wonderful  girl  she  is.  You  ought 

to  hear  old  Fred!  When  he  gets  started — well,  of 
course,  I  think  she’s  great  myself,  but  after  I’ve 
listened  to  poor  old  Fred’s  babble  for  a  couple  of 
hours  I  almost  hate  her!” 


312 


WOMEN 


Again  Mr.  Reamer  shook  his  head.  “It  doesn’t 
seem  to  me  my  hearing’s  exactly  right.  Are  you 
really  telling  me - ” 

“You  better  go  see,”  Mamie  advised  him.  “Oh, 
you’ll  get  it,  too!  You  think  you  won’t,  but  you 
will.  You’ll  get  it  as  bad  as  any  of  ’em,  Paul 
Reamer.” 

The  experienced  young  man  laughed  in  sheerest 
incredulity;  but  that  evening,  his  curiosity  being 
somewhat  piquantly  aroused,  he  acted  upon  Miss 
Ford’s  advice  and  went  to  find  out  if  it  could  possibly 
be  true  that  he  had  overlooked  anything  important 
in  so  long  overlooking  Elsie  Hemingway.  It  didn’t 
seem  probable,  but  if  it  proved  to  be  the  fact,  he 
was  somewhat  amusedly  prepared  to  make  good  to 
himself  what  he  had  lost  by  the  overlooking. 

The  moment  he  saw  her,  when  she  came  into  the 
old-fashioned  living-room  of  the  quiet  house  that  had 
once  been  too  quiet,  he  understood  that  he  had  much 
more  to  repay  himself  for  than  he  had  dreamed 
could  be  possible.  Elsie’s  look  of  knowing  some¬ 
thing  mysterious  and  lovely  about  herself  was  still 
upon  her;  and  Mr.  Reamer  set  himself  ardently  and 
instantly  to  the  task  of  self-repayment. 

“Elsie,”  he  said,  “I’ve  been  away  for  a  long. 


GLAMOUR  CAN  BE  KEPT  313 

dreary  time,  and  I’ve  just  got  back.  I’ve  come  to 
spend  my  very  first  evening  with  you.” 

He  was  too  late. 

Following  Elsie  from  the  library,  where  the  three 
had  been  having  coffee  and  discussing  the  Battle  of 
Waterloo,  came  two  gentlemen.  One  was  Elsie’s 
father,  and  he  walked  with  his  hand  upon  the  other 
gentleman’s  shoulder. 

The  other  gentleman  was  a  tall  young  man  from 
out  of  town  who  had  been  named  for  two  marshals 
and  a  general  of  the  First  Empire. 


XXVI 


DESERT  SAND 

WE  SPEAK  now  of  that  parent-troubling 
daughter  of  Mrs.  Dodge’s  as  she  came 
to  be  through  weltering  experience,  most 
of  it  hurried  and  all  of  it  crowded.  For  do  we  not 
know  that  there  are  maidens  of  twenty-three  who 
have  already  lived  a  lifetime.^  Such  is  their  own 
testimony.  They  have  had  a  view  of  all  the 
world  can  offer,  and  foresee  the  rest  of  their 
existence  as  mere  repetition,  not  stirring  to  the 
emotions.  Life  henceforth  is  to  be  but  “drab,” 
they  say,  several  decades  of  them  having  strongly 
favoured  the  word;  and  this  mood,  often  lasting  for 
days  at  a  time,  usually  follows  one  form  or  another 
of  amatory  anticlimax.  Not  infrequently  the  anti¬ 
climax  is  within  the  maiden  herself;  she  finds  herself 
lacking  in  certain  supremities  of  feeling  that  appear 
not  only  proper  but  necessary,  if  the  sentimental 
passions  are  to  be  taken  at  all  seriously. 

“It  is  all  over — I  shall  never  care  for  any  man — I 

314 


DESERT  SAND 


315 


shall  never  marry — I  shall  never  feel  anything  about 
anything  again/*  such  a  one  wrote  to  a  girl  confidant 
abroad,  and  fully  believed  what  she  wrote.  ‘T 
am  tired  of  everything,”  she  continued.  “I  am 
all  dead  within  me.  I  look  at  things,  but  I  do  not 
see  them.  I  see  nothing — nothing  absolutely!” 

And  yet  at  that  very  moment,  as  she  glanced 
absently  out  of  the  window  beside  her  pretty  green- 
painted  desk,  her  attention  became  concentrated 
upon  a  young  man  passing  along  the  suburban 
boulevard  below.  He  was  a  stranger,  but  a  modish 
and  comely  one;  she  could  not  accurately  call  him 
“nothing,”  nor  maintain  that  he  was  invisible; — ^her 
eyes  followed  him,  in  fact,  until  he  had  passed  out 
of  the  range  of  her  window.  Then,  with  perfect 
confidence  that  she  set  forth  the  truth,  she  turned 
back  to  her  letter  and  continued : 

“I  cannot  by  the  farthest  stretch  of  my  imagina¬ 
tion  picture  myself  as  feeling  the  least,  the  slightest — 
oh,  the  most  infinitesimal ! — featherweight  of  interest 
in  any  man  again  so  long  as  my  life  shall  last.  I 
broke  my  engagement  last  night  simply  on  that 
account.  It  was  not  in  the  most  formal  sense  an 
engagement,  since  it  hadn’t  been  announced;  but 


316 


WOMEN 


Henry  made  as  much  fuss  as  if  I  had  turned  back  at 
the  altar.  He  was  frantic,  especially  as  I  could  give 
him  no  reason  except  that  I  did  not  feel  for  him  what 
I  had  expected  to.  He  begged  and  begged  to  know 
what  he  had  done  to  change  me.  I  could  only  tell 
him  he  had  done  nothing.  I  had  simply  become 
incapable  of  caring.  I  think  now  that  I  fell  in  love 
too  often  and  too  intensely  in  my  younger  days. 
My  “grand  passion”  came  too  soon  and  since  then 
I  have  cared  less  and  less  each  time  that  I  have 
fancied  my  interest  intrigued.  The  absurd  boy  was 
my  Sun-god — and  yet  I  see  now  that  he  is  and  al¬ 
ways  was  a  ridiculous  person,  and  I  laugh  when  I 
remember  how  I  glorified  him  to  myself.  He  meant 
nothing.  Price  Gleason  meant  nothing.  Laurence 
Grover,  Paul  Arthur,  Capt.  Williams,  and  all  the 
others  meant  nothing.  Henry,  so  long  and  tediously 
a  pursuer,  means  nothing  now.  None  of  them  mean 
anything.  The  spring  has  gone  dry  and  my  heart, 
that  bloomed  once  so  eagerly,  is  desert  sand — desert 
sand,  my  dear!” 

She  was  rather  pleased  with  this  bit  of  metaphor 
and  read  it  over  aloud,  speaking  the  words  linger¬ 
ingly.  Upon  the  wall  beyond  the  pretty  desk  there 


DESERT  SAND 


317 


was  a  mirror  facing  her;  she  could  see  herself  when 
she  chose,  and  she  chose  to  see  herself  now  in  her 
mood  of  poetic  melancholy.  She  saw  a  winsome 
picture  in  that  mirror,  too,  when  she  made  this 
choice — an  exquisitely  fair,  delicate  creature,  slim, 
though  not  so  fragile  as  she  had  been,  and,  in  spite  of 
her  heart  of  desert  sand,  all  alive  indeed.  Probably 
induced  by  pleasure  in  the  metaphor  just  written, 
the  young  lady  in  the  glass  was  at  the  moment  more 
sparkling,  in  fact,  than  seemed  suitable.  Therefore, 
her  face  became  poignantly  wistful — an  effect  so 
excellent  that  a  surprised  approbation  was  added, 
a  little  incongruously,  to  the  wistfulness.  The  ap¬ 
probation  was  removed  in  favour  of  an  inscrutable 
pathos,  which  continued  throughout  a  long  exchange 
of  looks  between  the  image  and  its  original;  then 
both  of  these  little  blonde  heads  bent  once  more  above 
their  green-painted  desks,  in  a  charmingly  concerted 
action,  like  two  glints  of  sunshine  glancing  down 
through  foliage; — and  the  letter  was  resumed. 

“My  dear,  our  suburb  is  trembling  with  excite¬ 
ment.  The  chief  scion  of  all  the  McArdles  is  on  the 
point  of  being  Installed  in  Residence  among  us.  I 
think  it  should  be  spoken  of  as  at  least  an  Installa- 


318 


WOMEN 


tion,  shouldn’t  it?  In  our  great  Plutocracy,  surely 
the  McArdle  dynasty  is  Royalty,  isn’t  it?  Anyhow, 
you’d  think  so  if  you  could  see  the  excitement  over 
the  announcement  that  James  Herbert  McArdle, 
III,  is  coming  here  to  represent  the  dynasty’s  inter¬ 
ests.  That  is,  he’s  supposed  to  be  the  new  manager 
of  the  huge  McArdle  Works,  which  are  the  smallest,  I 
believe,  of  the  dozens  of  McArdle  Works  over  the 
country.  I  understand  he’s  only  to  be  nominal 
manager  and  is  really  to  “learn  the  business”  under 
old  Mr.  Hiram  Huston,  the  McArdles’  trusted  “local 
representative.”  The  youthful  Dauphin  is  given 
command  of  an  army — ^but  under  the  advice  of  old 
generals  strictly!  However,  you  can  guess  what  a 
spasm  is  happening  here,  with  seventy  million  dollars 
(or  is  it  seven  hundred  million?)  walking  around  un¬ 
der  one  hat.  I  feel  sorry  for  the  poor  agitated  girls 
and  their  poor  agitating  mothers.  The  rich  marry 
the  rich;  we  sha’n’t  get  him!” 

She  looked  up  thoughtfully  at  the  mirror,  frowned 
in  sharp  disapproval — not  of  the  mirror — and  con¬ 
tinued:  “It’s  really  disgusting,  the  manoeuvring  to 
be  the  first  to  meet  and  annex  him.  Eleanor  Gray 
and  her  mother  are  accused  of  having  gone  to  New 


DESERT  SAND 


319 


York  to  try  to  be  on  the  same  train  with  him !  Yes¬ 
terday  there  was  a  rumour  that  he  had  arrived  at  the 
Jefferson  Road  Inn,  which  is  to  be  his  temporary 
quarters,  and  the  story  went  all  round  that  Harriet 
Joyce  thought  she  recognized  him  there  at  tea  and 
actually  fainted  away  in  order  to  make  him  notice 
her.  My  dear,  I  believe  it!  Really,  you  simply 
couldn’t  imagine  the  things  that  are  going  on.  As 
for  me,  it  is  the  piteous  truth  that  this  stupendous 
advent  fails  to  stir  me.  I  wish  it  could!  But  no, 
upon  my  life,  I  haven’t  a  flicker — not  the  faintest 
flicker  of  ordinary  human  curiosity  to  know  even  if 
he  looks  like  his  tiresome  pictures.  These  curiosi¬ 
ties,  these  stirrings  are  for  the  springtime  of  life, 
my  dear,  while  I — as  I  told  poor  Henry  last  night — I 
am  autumn!” 

Thus  wrote  Lily  that  most  April-like  of  all  maidens 
and  within  the  hour  went  forth,  looking  like  the  very 
spring  itself,  to  meet  an  adventure  comparable  to 
adventures  met  only  in  the  springtime  of  the  world. 
The  scene  of  this  adventure  should  have  been  a  wood 
near  Camelot,  or  the  Forest  of  Arden,  and  Lily 
a  young  huntress  in  a  leathern  kirtle  and  out  with 
a  gilded  bow  and  painted  arrows  for  hare  or  pheasant. 
Then,  if  one  of  her  arrows  had  pierced  the  thicket  and 


S20  WOMEN 

also  the  King’s  Son  on  the  other  side  of  it,  so  that  she 
came  and  took  him,  all  swounding,  in  her  arms,  the 
same  thing  in  all  true  essentials  would  have  happened 
that  happened  to  her  to-day.  The  surroundings 
would  have  been  more  appropriate — especially  for  a 
damsel  with  a  dead  heart — than  the  golf  course  of  the 
Blue  Hills  Country  Club,  but  the  hero  and  the 
heroine  and  the  wounding  and  the  swounding  would 
have  been  identical. 

In  particular,  there  was  little  difference  between 
James  Herbert  McArdle  and  a  king’s  son.  From 
the  time  of  his  birth,  which  was  announced  by 
greater  tongues  than  those  of  royal  heralds,  these 
greater  tongues  being  the  principal  newspapers 
of  the  world,  he  was  a  public  figure.  At  the  age  of 
four  his  likeness  and  those  of  his  favourite  goat  and 
dog  were  made  known  to  his  fellow  citizens  up  and 
down  the  land  by  means  of  photographic  repro¬ 
ductions  in  magazines  and  in  the  Sunday  prints. 
Lest  there  be  fear  on  the  part  of  the  public  that 
he  might  alter  beyond  recognition  as  he  grew  up, 
these  magazines  and  prints  continued  reassuringly 
to  present  portraits  of  him,  playing  in  the  sea  sand, 
or  seated  upon  the  knee  of  his  portentous  grand¬ 
father,  or — with  tutor  and  attendants — upon  the 


DESERT  SAND 


sn 


platform  of  his  father’s  private  car,  and  later,  when 
he  reached  a  proper  age,  being  instructed  in  the 
technique  necessary  for  driving  his  earliest  automo¬ 
bile. 

His  first  evening  after  matriculating  as  a  freshman 
at  a  university  was  spent  in  dining  and  conversing 
with  the  university’s  president.  When,  as  a  sopho¬ 
more,  he  was  found  equal  to  a  position  in  “left  field” 
on  the  varsity  nine,  and  the  nine  went  out  of  town 
to  play,  reporters  interviewed  him  and  neglected  to 
mention  the  captain.  When  he  had  graduated  and 
his  father  and  grandfather  began  to  prepare  him 
for  the  ponderous  responsibilities  that  would  some 
day  rest  upon  his  shoulders,  there  were  spreading 
“feature  articles ”  about  him  everywhere.  Wherever 
he  went,  important  old  men  hurried  beamingly  to  his 
side,  eager  to  be  seen  conversing  with  him;  magnifi¬ 
cent  old  ladies  went  beyond  all  amiability  in  caressing 
him;  many  of  his  contemporaries  were  unable  to  veil 
their  deference;  and  lovely  girls  looked  plentifully 
toward  him.  All  his  life  he  had  been  courted, 
attended,  served,  pointed  out,  focussed  upon,  stared 
at,  and  lime-lighted  before  the  multitude.  No  won¬ 
der  the  poor  young  man  liked  solitude  better  than 
anything  else! 


S22 


WOMEN 


When  he  contrived  to  be  alone  he  protracted  the 
experience  as  far  as  he  was  able;  and  to-day,  having 
escaped  from  a  welcoming  committee  and  the  mayor 
of  the  suburb  that  was  to  be  his  home  for  a  year,  he 
drove  alone  to  the  country  club,  which  had  already 
elected  him  to  membership.  Here  he  was  delighted 
to  find  that  the  late  hour  and  nipping  air  had  divested 
the  links  of  every  player,  and,  attended  by  a  linger¬ 
ing  caddy  who  was  unaware  of  his  client’s  identity, 
James  Herbert  set  forth  upon  a  round  of  the  course 
with  a  leisureliness  unmatched  by  the  most  elderly 
member  of  the  club. 

It  was  a  leisureliness  so  extreme  indeed  that  it 
annoyed  a  player  who  arrived  in  full  equipment  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  after  young  Mr.  McArdle  had 
made  his  first  drive  on  that  course.  Her  equipment 
was  too  complete  to  please  her,  as  it  happened,  for  he 
had  taken  the  last  caddy,  which  was  another  item 
in  her  list  of  indignations; — Lily  had  found  time  to 
acquire  such  a  list  since  finishing  her  letter.  Most 
of  the  items  concerned  that  unfortunate  Henry^ 
mentioned  as  having  been  dismissed  on  the  previous 
evening.  Henry  had  called;  had  been  turned  away 
at  the  door  with  “Not  at  home”;  and  then,  by  an 
unworthy  pretext — though  his  lamentable  state  of 


DESERT  SAND 


S2S 


mind  might  have  offered  some  excuse — he  had  se¬ 
cured  her  presence  at  the  telephone,  where  merely 
what  he  said  to  her  was  furniture  enough  for  any 
ordinary  list  of  indignations.  She  decided  to  cool 
her  temper  by  a  solitary  but  vigorous  round  of  the 
golf  course. 

Lily  was  one  of  those  favoured  creatures  who  have 
a  genius  for  this  most  inviting  yet  most  baffling  of  all 
the  pastimes  of  mankind;  and  persistence  had  added 
so  much  to  her  native  gift  that  a  long  shelf  at  home 
was  needed  to  support  the  tournament  prizes  she  had 
won.  Various  ‘Tadies’  championships”  were  hers, 
too;  and  she  was  known  among  all  the  country  clubs 
for  miles  around  on  account  of  a  special  talent, 
well  practised,  for  marvellous  little  precisions  of 
accuracy.  Moreover,  Lily  was  what  players  have 
been  heard  to  call  “conscientious”  about  her  game. 
She  wished  ever  to  excel  herself,  to  play  excellently 
even  when  she  played  alone,  and  she  was  never  quite 
at  her  best  when  she  had  no  caddy;  therefore  she  was 
annoyed  with  the  gentleman  ahead  of  her  on  that 
account,  as  well  as  because  of  his  leisure. 

If  she  could  play  “all  the  way  round”  with  a  fine 
score  before  darkness  stopped  her,  Lily  felt  that  her 
irritations  within  might  be  a  little  soothed;  but  she 


S24 


WOMEN 


found  them,  on  the  contrary,  increasing.  She  might 
have  passed  the  laggard  player  if  she  had  chosen; 
but  his  figure  bore  an  accurate  resemblance  to  that 
of  a  gentleman  named  in  her  letter  as  Captain 
Williams.  Lily  had  her  own  reasons  for  avoiding 
any  conversation  with  Captain  Williams,  to  whom 
she  had  been  as  enigmatic,  six  months  earlier,  as  she 
had  yesterday  been  to  Henry.  She  was  almost 
certain,  in  fact,  that  the  languid  golfer  was  Captain 
Williams,  and  so  kept  far  behind  him — a  difficult 
matter  for  one  who  wished  to  play  at  all. 

She  talked  broodingly  to  herself,  addressing  him. 
“Old  Thing!  she  called  him  between  her  teeth. 
“Slow  Poke!  Aren’t  you  ever  going  to  hit  that  ball! 
Oh,  my  heaven,  what  are  you  doing  now?  Writing 
your  score  or  writing  a  book?  Snail!  Tortoise!” 
And  as  his  procrastinations  continued,  she  called  him 
worse.  “Mule!”  she  said,  and  corroborated  herself 
vehemently.  “Mule,  mule,  mule!  You’re  a  mule 
once,  you’re  a  mule  twice,  you’re  a  mule  a  hundred 
and  eighty-seven  times  over — and  that’s  only  com¬ 
mencing  to  tell  you  what  you  are!”  For  now,  as  she 
waited  and  waited,  withholding  her  strokes  intolera¬ 
bly  as  the  late  light  waned  and  waned,  she  hated  him 
with  that  great  hatred  most  human  beings  feel  for  all 


DESERT  SAND 


325 


things  unconsciously  and  persistently  in  their  way. 

But  in  the  deepening  twilight  haze  she  felt  safe  to 
approach  him  more  closely,  until  finally  she  was  less 
than  an  arrow’s  flight  away.  He  was  upon  the  last 
of  the  greens  by  this  time,  and  she,  unnoticed,  stood 
waiting  for  him  to  leave  it  so  that  she  might  drive 
her  ball  upon  it.  But  here  he  delayed  interminably. 
He  lay  prone  upon  the  ground  to  study  a  proper  aim, 
though  he  studied  it  so  long  that  his  purpose  might 
have  been  thought  a  siesta;  and  when  he  rose  it  was 
to  examine  the  sod  by  inches.  Finally,  having  com¬ 
pleted  all  these  preliminaries  and  benefited  little  by 
them  in  their  consummation,  he  remained  standing 
upon  the  green,  preoccupied  with  his  score  card. 
“You  go  on!”  Lily  said,  dangerously.  “You  aren’t 
writing  a  dictionary.  Go  on!” 

But  he  continued  to  stand,  amending  and  editing 
his  card  as  though  eternity  were  at  everyone’s 
disposal.  The  long  red  ribbons  in  the  western  sky 
merged  with  the  general  fog  colour  of  the  dusk,  and 
he  was  but  a  hazy  figure  when  at  last  he  moved. 
And  as  he  turned  his  back  and  lifted  a  slow  foot  to 
leave  the  green,  Lily,  impatient  beyond  all  discretion, 
cut  the  air  with  her  heaviest  implement. 

“Mule!”  she  said,  furiously,  instead  of  “Fore!” 


326 


WOMEN 


and  put  that  fury  into  her  swing.  Nevertheless,  the 
ball  sped  true  in  direction,  though  in  the  thickened 
air  it  sped  invisibly  and  would  far  have  overshot 
the  mark  if  nothing  had  stopped  it.  Straight  to  the 
short  dark  hair  on  the  back  of  the  languid  player’s 
head  the  little  white  ball  flew  with  fiercest  precision, 
and  being  hard,  and  on  its  way  to  a  place  much 
farther  on,  it  straightway  rendered  him  more  languid 
than  ever.  He  dropped  without  a  moan. 


XXVII 


MIRACULOUS  ACCIDENT 

OH,  MURDER!”  Lily  gasped,  not  greatly 
exaggerating  when  she  used  that  word.  She 
stood  gazing  toward  him  miserably,  waiting 
for  him  to  rise;  and  then,  as  the  stricken  player’s 
inertia  remained  complete,  she  ran  forward,  screaming 
to  the  caddy,  who  was  disappearing  toward  the  club¬ 
house. 

He  came  back,  and  together  they  turned  the  prone 
figure  over  so  that  it  lay  upon  its  back,  revealing 
an  interesting  young  face  of  a  disquieting  pallor. 
“I  guess  you  must  of  killed  him  this  time,”  the  caddy 
said,  unreasonably,  and  then  seemed  to  wish  to  solace 
the  assassin,  for  he  added:  “He  ain’t  a  member 
though.” 

Lily  was  already  on  the  ground  beside  her  victim, 
rubbing  his  hands.  “Run!”  she  cried.  “Get  a 
doctor!  Run!” 

She  failed  to  recognize  the  fallen  player,  and  so  did 
the  steward  and  three  waiters  from  the  clubhouse, 
which  was  just  then  vacant  of  members.  James 

327 


S28  WOMEN 

Herbert  McArdle’s  features  were  not  so  well  known 
as  those  of  the  President  of  the  United  States,  nor, 
probably,  as  those  of  the  more  conspicuous  actors  in 
moving  pictures; — nevertheless,  his  face  was  familiar 
to  those  who  now  sought  to  identify  it;  and  as  they 
worked  to  restore  the  expression  of  life  to  it  they  were 
aware  of  elusive  clews. 

The  steward  said  he  was  sure  he  knew  the  gentle¬ 
man,  who  must  often  have  been  about  the  club, 
though  he  couldn’t  quite  place  him.  The  waiters  had 
the  same  impression  and  the  same  disability  precisely, 
while  the  trembling  Lily  herself  was  troubled  by  stir¬ 
rings  of  memory.  Either  she  had  once  known  her 
victim,  she  thought,  or  else  he  was  like  someone  she 
knew;  but  a  white  face  inanimate,  upturned  to  the 
evening  sky,  is  strange  even  to  those  who  know  it 
most  intimately.  The  likeness  remained  evasive, 
and  the  prostrate  young  man  both  unconscious  and 
unidentified. 

Lily  was  relieved  of  her  first  horror; — at  least  he 
was  not  dead.  On  the  other  hand,  certainly  he  was 
not  well.  And  when  she  drove  that  ball  she  had 
hated  him.  Of  course  she  had  not  intended  this 
dolorous  stroke,  yet  when  she  made  it,  had  she  really 
cared  whether  or  not  it  laid  him  low?  She  had 


MIRACULOUS  ACCIDENT 


329 


not — and  now  regret  shook  her.  Perhaps  she  would 
have  felt  it  less  profoundly  had  the  maddening 
player  proved  indeed  to  be  Captain  Williams;  but 
with  the  lifeless  head  of  this  well-favoured  and 
unoffending  stranger  upon  her  lap,  her  remorse  was 
an  anguish. 

She  would  not  leave  him  or  cease  to  do  what  she 
could  in  every  humble  way.  She  chafed  his  hands 
and  bathed  his  forehead; — she  helped  to  carry  him 
to  the  clubhouse;  and,  when  the  hospital  ambulance 
came,  she  went  in  it  to  the  hospital  with  him.  She 
stood  in  the  corridor  outside  the  door  of  the  room 
to  which  they  carried  him  there,  and  waited  while 
a  surgeon  examined  him.  Indeed,  she  waited, 
weeping. 

She  knew  the  surgeon,  and  when  he  came  out  of 
the  room  she  rushed  to  him.  “Doctor  Waite,  tell 
me!  Don’t  spare  me!” 

“He’s  got  a  concussion.  It’s  no  joke,  but  anyhow 
it  isn’t  a  fracture.  Funny  about  nobody  knowing 
who  he  is; — ^I’m  sure  I’ve  met  him,  or  else  he  reminds 
me  of  somebody,  I  can’t  think  who.” 

“Doctor,  he  isn’t — ^he  isn’t  going  to - ” 

The  surgeon  looked  upon  her  reassuringly.  “No. 
We’ll  pull  him  through.  You  quit  thinking  about 


330 


WOMEN 


him  and  go  home  and  get  your  dinner  and  then  go 
to  bed  and  go  to  sleep.” 

“I  couldn’t,”  Lily  said,  choking.  “I  couldn’t 
do  any  of  those  things.” 

He  laughed  sympathetically.  “Then  I  guess  I’ll 
have  to  call  up  your  mother  and  tell  her  to  come  and 
make  you.” 

But  when  not  only  her  mother  but  her  father,  too, 
arrived  in  hurried  response  to  the  telephone,  they 
could  not  get  the  tearful  Lily  to  leave  the  hospital; 
and  they  remained  with  her,  engaging  in  intermittent 
argument,  until  midnight.  At  that  time  Doctor 
Waite  informed  them  that  the  unknown  patient  was 
in  a  torpid  but  not  critical  condition;  he  had  mumbled 
a  few  words  to  the  effect  that  he  wanted  to  be  let 
alone. 

“And  as  that’s  just  what  we’re  doing  with  him,” 
the  surgeon  said  to  Lily  rather  sharply,  “and  as  you 
can’t  do  any  possible  good  to  anybody  in  the  world 
by  staying  here,  I  suggest  that  you  take  his  advice, 
too,  and  obey  your  father  and  mother.” 

Not  until  then  would  the  suffering  girl  allow  them 
to  lead  her  away;  but  so  far  as  sleep  was  concerned, 
she  might  as  well  have  stayed  at  the  hospital.  So 
might  her  father  and  mother,  almost;  for  she  was  at 


MIRACULOUS  ACCIDENT 


331 


their  door  in  her  nightdress  three  times — three 
separated  times,  the  last  being  at  four  o’clock  in  the 
morning.  “Papa,  do  you  think  he’ll  die.^” 

Mrs.  Dodge  wearily  conducted  her  to  bed  again; 
but  Lily  only  wept  upon  her  pillow,  and  in  whispers 
begged  it  to  forgive  her  for  not  calling  “Fore.” 
Sunrise  found  her  dressed;  and  in  the  chilly  Novem¬ 
ber  early  morning  she  slipped  out  of  the  house, 
crossed  the  suburban  park  to  the  hospital,  and 
immediately  heard  news  indeed.  Doctor  Waite  was 
already  there,  and  with  him  were  three  other  surgeons 
and  a  physician,  all  of  them  important.  He  came 
to  speak  to  Lily. 

“All  this  distinguishedness  for  your  unknown 
patient,”  he  said,  with  a  gesture  toward  the  group 
he  had  just  left;  and,  as  her  expression  began  to  be 
grievous,  he  added  hastily,  “He’s  perfectly  all  right. 
At  least  he’s  going  to  be.  The  importance  yonder  is 
only  because  he  turns  out  to  be  so  unexpectedly  im¬ 
portant  himself.” 

“You’ve  found  out  who  he  is?” 

“Somei^^a^.'”  he  returned  with  humorous  empha¬ 
sis.  “We’ve  managed  to  keep  your  name  out  of 
the  papers — so  far.” 

“What  papers?” 


332 


WOMEN 


“All  of  them.  Take  your  choice,”  he  said — and 
he  offered  her  two;  but  one  at  a  time  was  enough  for 
Lily. 

Headlines  announced  that  a  “Mysterious  Acci¬ 
dent”  at  the  Blue  Hills  Country  Club  had  “resulted 
in  grave  injury”  to  James  Herbert  McArdle.  The 
illustrious  youth  had  lain  unconscious  and  unrec¬ 
ognized  until  a  short  time  after  midnight,  the 
more  sober  text  of  the  report  informed  her.  Mr. 
H.  H.  Huston,  the  McArdle  representative,  had 
been  alarmed  by  Mr.  McArdle’s  disappearance  and 
continued  absence,  subsequent  to  the  reception  of 
an  address  by  the  suburban  welcoming  committee, 
and  in  the  course  of  an  exhaustive  search  Mr.  Huston 
had  caused  inquiries  to  be  made  at  the  Blue  Hills 
Country  Club.  Here  it  was  learned  that  an  unknown 
gentleman  had  been  struck  in  the  head  by  a  golf 
ball  driven  with  such  force  as  to  cause  a  concussion 
of  the  brain.  The  club’s  employees  had  withheld 
the  name  of  the  person  responsible  for  the  injury; 
but  a  reporter  had  ascertained  that  it  was  a  lady  and 
that  she  had  accompanied  the  wounded  man — 
“wounded  man”  was  the  newspaper’s  phrase — in 
the  ambulance,  and  had  “insisted  upon  remaining 
at  the  hospital  until  a  late  hour.”  Mr.  H.  H.  Huston 


MIRACULOUS  ACCIDENT 


333 


had  reached  the  hospital  not  long  after  midnight; 
Mr.  McArdle  had  just  become  conscious  and  revealed 
his  identity  to  the  nurse  in  charge.  Mr.  Huston  had 
said  to  a  reporter  that  Mr.  McArdle  “positively 
declared  himself  ignorant  of  the  name  of  the  person 
who  had  caused  his  injury.”  Altogether,  there  was 
“an  air  of  mystery  about  the  affair”;  and  Mr. 
McArdle’s  condition  was  still  grave,  though  the 
surgeons  said  that  he  would  “probably  recover.” 

It  is  to  Lily’s  credit  that  the  strongest  emotion 
roused  in  her  by  this  reading  concerned  these  final 
two  words.  She  repeated  them  pathetically  to 
Doctor  Waite.  “‘Probably  recover’?  ‘Probably’?” 

He  laughed.  “Don’t  you  know  newspapers? 
Didn’t  I  tell  you  last  night  he’d  be  all  right?  We 
wired  his  family  an  hour  ago  that  there  was  no  reason 
for  any  of  them  to  come  on.  All  that  surgical  and 
medical  impressiveness  over  yonder  only  represents 
old  Hiram  Huston’s  idea  of  the  right  thing  to  do 
for  a  McArdle  with  a  bump  on  his  head.  The  young 
fellow  may  have  to  stay  here  quietly  for  a  week  or 
ten  days  possibly;  but  by  that  time  he  ought  to  be 
pretty  nearly  ready  to  stop  a  ball  for  you  again.” 

“Don’t  joke  about  it,”  Lily  said,  huskily.  “When 
can  I  see  him?” 


334 


WOMEN 


“Think  you  better?” 

“Why  not?” 

“The  newspapers  called  it  a  ‘mystery/  you  know,” 
he  explained.  “They’ll  probably  be  inquisitive. 
They  might  get  your  name.” 

“What  do  I  care?”  she  cried.  “Do  you  think 
I’d  let  that  stop  me  from  asking  him  to  forgive  me?  ” 

“So?”  the  doctor  said,  looking  at  her  twinklingly. 
“So  that’s  why  you  want  to  see  him?” 

She  stared,  not  understanding  his  humorous  al¬ 
lusion.  “Why,  what  else  could  I  do?” 

“Nothing,”  he  answered.  “I  was  only  thinking 
I’d  heard  that  a  good  many  young  ladies  were  anxious 
to  make  his  acquaintance.  I  imagine  you’ll  be  the 
first,  my  dear.” 

“Well,  oughtn’t  I  to  be?”  she  demanded.  “If 
you’d  done  as  terrible  a  thing  as  that  to  anybody, 
wouldn’t  you  think  you  were  entitled  to  ask  his 
pardon  about  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  listen?” 

“Without  doubt.  In  the  meantime  I  think  you’d 
better  go  home  and  to  bed  again.” 

She  protested,  but  proved  meeker  under  advice 
than  she  had  the  night  before.  She  went  home, 
though  not  directly,  for  she  stopped  half  an  hour 
at  some  greenhouses  that  were  a  mile  out  of  her  way. 


MIRACULOUS  ACCIDENT  335 

She  sent  to  Mr.  James  Herbert  McArdle  at  the 
hospital  a  prodigious  sheaf  of  flowers — enough  to 
cripple  her  rather  moderate  monthly  allowance  from 
her  father — and  the  following  morning,  since  the 
allowance  was  already  so  far  gone,  she  did  the  same 
thing.  Having  thus  fallen  into  the  habit,  she  was  as 
lavish  upon  the  third  morning  after  the  accident,  so 
that  at  three  o’clock  of  this  same  day,  when  Doctor 
Waite  took  her  into  his  patient’s  room,  he  seemed 
to  be  conducting  her  into  a  conservatory. 

Like  fair  Elaine,  James  Herbert  McArdle  in  a 
silken  gown  lay  white  and  motionless,  embowered 
among  blooms;  but  his  eyes  glimmered  in  surprised 
appreciation  when  they  beheld  his  serious  visitor. 
Gray  was  becoming  to  the  fair  and  slim  Lily — 
her  clothes  didn’t  depend  upon  her  allowance — and 
she  was  never  more  charming  than  when  she  was 
serious. 

“My  goodness!”  said  the  frank  convalescent, 
with  a  feeble  kind  of  forcefulness.  “I  didn’t  expect 
anybody  like  you!  I  was  sure  it  would  turn  out  to 
be  some  old  hag.” 

Lily  was  a  little  given  to  the  theatrical,  though 
only  when  occasion  warranted  it,  as  this  one  did 
if  any  occasion  could.  She  swept  forward  softly. 


336 


WOMEN 


her  sensitive  face  all  compassion  and  remorse.  She 
knelt  beside  the  iron  bed. 

“Some  day  you  may  forgive  me,”  she  said,  tremu¬ 
lously,  and  her  voice  was  always  stirringly  lovely 
when  it  trembled.  “Some  day  you  may  be  able  even 
to  forget  what  I’ve  done  to  you — ^but  I  want  you  to 
be  sure  that  I  shall  never  forget  it  or  forgive  myself.” 

“Here!”  he  said.  “There’s  nothing  to  that. 
They  tell  me  you  came  in  the  ambulance  with  me 
and  hung  around  and  did  all  sorts  of  things.  And 
look  at  all  these  greenhouses  you  must  have  bought 
out!  A  person’s  liable  to  get  a  clip  on  the  head 
almost  anywhere  these  days.  Let’s  shake  hands — 
but  not  forget  it.” 

“You  can’t - ” 

“I  haven’t  got  anything  to  forgive  you  for,  of 
course,”  he  said.  “You  don’t  forgive  accidents; 
you  just  forget  ’em.  What  I  mean  is,  I  don’t  want 
to  forget  this  one — ^now  I’ve  seen  you,  I  don’t.” 

“Well - ”  Lily  said,  vaguely.  “But  I’d  like 

you  just  to  say  you  forgive  me.  Won’t  you?” 

“All  right.”  He  moved  his  hand  toward  her  and 
she  took  it  for  a  moment.  “I  forgive  you — but  I 
think  you  ought  to  do  something  for  me.” 

“What?” 


MIRACULOUS  ACCIDENT 


337 


“How  long  did  the  doctor  say  you  can  stay  here?” 

“Five  or  ten  minutes.” 

“Well,  then,  I  think  you  ought  to  come  back  to¬ 
morrow  when  you  can  stay  half  an  hour  or  an  hour.” 

“I  will,”  she  said. 

But  he  had  not  finished.  “And  the  next  day, 
too.  Maybe  they’d  let  you  read  to  me,  or  something. 
And  as  long  as  I’m  laid  up  here — it  won’t  be  long,  at 
that — ^I  think  you  ought  to  come  every  day  and  help 
me  pass  the  time.  I  forgive  you,  but  I  think  you  do 
owe  me  that  much.  And  as  soon  as  they  let  me  take 
a  drive  I  think  you  ought  to  go  along.  How  about 
it?” 

“I  will,”  Lily  said.  “I  will,  indeed.  I’ll  do  any¬ 
thing  in  the  world  you  think  might  make  up  a  little 
for  the  pain  I’ve  brought  you.  Nothing  could  make 
me  happier.” 

“That’s  good  news,”  the  young  man  told  her, 
thoughtfully.  “A  clip  on  the  head  isn’t  necessarily 
such  a  bad  thing,  after  all.” 

More  and  more  he  seemed  to  incline  to  this  opinion; 
— ^in  fact,  he  went  so  far  as  to  assure  Doctor  Waite, 
three  days  later,  that  he  preferred  the  hospital  to  the 
apartment  old  Hiram  Huston  was  preparing  for  him. 
“I  think  I’d  like  to  sort  of  settle  down  to  the  life 


838  WOMEN 

here,”  he  said.  “It’s  nice  and  private  and  suits  me 
exactly.” 

“Yes,”  said  the  doctor,  thoughtfully.  “It’s  a 
pity  you’re  too  important  to  do  what  you  want  to.” 
And  lightly,  as  if  to  himself,  he  hummed  a  fragment 
of  frivolous  song: 

“I  don’t  want  to  get  well, 

I  don’t  want  to  get  well. 

I’m  in  love  with  a  beautiful  nurse!** 

The  young  man  heeded  neither  the  humming 
nor  the  remark  about  his  unfortunate  importance. 
He  frowned,  looking  anxiously  at  his  watch  on  the 
table  beside  his  couch.  “I  wonder  what’s  keeping 
her,”  he  said,  peevishly.  “  She  said  she’d  be  here  with 
a  book  to  read  to  me.  When  anybody  does  to 
another  person  what  she  did  to  me,  I  think  the 
least  they  can  do  is  to  be  punctual,  especially  when 
they’ve  promised  they  would.” 

She  of  whom  he  complained  was  not  far  away, 
however.  At  that  moment  she  had  just  been  greeted 
and  detained  by  two  girl  friends  of  hers  who  en¬ 
countered  her  in  the  park  on  her  way  to  the  hospital. 
Their  manner  did  not  please  her. 

“Lill-Zee.'”  they  shouted  from  the  distance,  at 
sight  of  her.  They  whistled  shrilly,  and,  as  she 


MIRACULOUS  ACCIDENT 


339 


looked  toward  them,  they  waved  their  arms  at  her; 
then  came  running,  visibly  excited  and  audibly 
uproarious. 

They  seemed  to  be  bursting  with  laughter;  yet 
when  they  reached  her,  what  they  said  was  only, 
“Where  you  going,  Lily?”  And  before  she  replied, 
they  clutched  each  other,  perishing  of  their  mutual 
jocularity.  From  the  first,  Lily  did  not  like  their 
laughter; — it  had  not  the  sound  of  true  mirth,  but 
was  the  kind  of  mere  vocal  noise  that  hints  of  girlish 
malice. 

She  looked  at  them  disapprovingly.  “I’m  going 
to  the  hospital,”  she  said  with  some  primness. 
“What’s  so  funny?” 

“What  you  going  to  do  at  the  hospital,  Lily?” 

“Read  to  Mr.  McArdle,”  she  replied.  “He’s 
better  and - ” 

But  their  immediate  uproar  cut  her  short.  They 
clung  together,  shrieking.  “That’s  not  your  fault, 
is  it,  Lily?”  one  of  them  became  coherent  enough  to 
inquire,  whereupon  they  both  doubled  themselves, 
rocked,  gurgled,  screamed,  and  clung  again. 

“What’s  not  my  fault?”  she  asked. 

“That  he’s  better!” 

With  that,  they  moved  to  be  upon  their  way. 


340 


WOMEN 


still  uproarious,  still  clutching  each  other;  and  as  they 
went  they  looked  back  to  shout  at  her. 

“He  won’t  get  better  very  fast,  will  he,  Lily?” 
one  of  them  thus  called  back  to  her,  and,  without 
pausing,  replied  to  herself:  “Not  if  you  have  your 
way!” 

And  the  other:  “Eleanor  Gray  and  Harriet  Joyce 
have  nothing  on  you,  have  they,  Lily?” 

They  disappeared  round  a  curving  path,  leaning 
upon  each  other  from  exhaustion;  and  Lily  stood 
looking  after  them  frowningly.  There  had  been 
little  good-nature  in  their  raillery,  and  also  there 
were  mysterious  and  vaguely  unpleasant  implications 
in  it — ^particularly  in  the  final  jibe  about  Eleanor 
Gray  and  Harriet  Joyce.  Miss  Gray  was  the  girl 
accused  by  rumour  of  having  sought  to  put  herself 
upon  James  Herbert  McArdle’s  train,  and  Miss 
Joyce  was  widely  supposed  to  have  fainted  with  the 
deliberate  purpose  of  attracting  his  attention.  The 
implication  of  the  mirthful  pair  just  encountered 
that  Lily  surpassed  both  Miss  Gray  and  Miss  Joyce 
was  plain  enough — ^as  if  going  to  a  hospital  to  read 
to  a  patient  were  a  mere  manoeuvre  of  the  type  to 
which  the  Gray  and  Joyce  manoeuvres  belonged! 
And  as  if  one  wouldn’t  gladly  give  a  little  of  one’s 


MIRACULOUS  ACCIDENT 


341 


time  to  a  hospital  patient  who  has  become  a  patient 
through  one’s  own  fault !  But  more  than  mere  rally¬ 
ing  upon  the  hospital  readings  seemed  to  have  been 
implied;  and  as  Lily  thought  the  matter  over,  she  felt 
that  something  of  the  teasing  pair’s  meaning  evaded 
her. 

She  had  the  same  feeling  after  an  interview  the 
next  day  with  one  of  her  nearest  and  dearest  girl 
friends,  who  came  to  see  her  at  home.  ‘T  don’t 
want  to  be  intrusive,  dear,”  the  caller  informed  her, 
with  sympathetic  but  rather  eager  gravity.  “You 
know  me  too  well  to  believe  I’d  ask  such  a  thing  out 
of  pure  curiosity;  but  I’ve  simply  got  to  know  how 
poor  Henry  Burnett  is  taking  it.” 

“Taking  what,  Emma?” 

“Lily!  You  know  what  I  mean.  I  mean  all  this 
about  you  and  Mr.  McArdle.” 

“‘All  this’?”  Lily  repeated  in  a  tone  of  cold 
inquiry.  “I  don’t  see  that  such  a  simple  matter 
needs  quite  that  sort  of  definition.  Naturally, 
I’m  doing  what  I  can  to  help  him  through  his  con¬ 
valescence.  Oughtn’t  I  to?  But  perhaps  you  don’t 
know  that  I’m  responsible  for  his  being  in  the  hospi¬ 
tal,  Emma.” 

“Oh,  yes,”  Emma  said,  quietly,  and  she  gave  her 


342 


WOMEN 


friend  a  queer  look.  “Yes,  everybody  knows  that, 
Lily,”  she  went  on  in  a  thoughtful  voice.  “Every¬ 
body!  Yes,  indeed!”  She  paused,  then  reverted 
to  her  former  topic.  “I  just  wondered  how  poor 
Henry  Burnett  is  taking  it  all.” 

“I  haven’t  any  idea  what  you  mean,”  Lily  said, 
impatiently.  “I  fail  to  see  that  there’s  anything  for 
him  to  ‘take’;  and  if  there  were,  it  would  certainly 
be  no  affair  of  his.  I  have  no  responsibilities  to  Mr. 
Burnett.” 

“But  you  did!  Weren’t  you  almost - ” 

“That  may  be,”  Lily  interrupted.  “But  I  don’t 
see  him  any  more.” 

“You  broke  with  him,  Lily.^” 

“I  did  not,  because  there  was  nothing  absolutely 
announced  and  definite  to  break.  I  simply  decided 
not  to  waste  any  more  of  his  time  and  mine.” 

“Why.^”  Emma  asked. 

“Because  I  found  that  I  had  no  feeling  for  him; 
none  for  him  nor  for  anything  else — no  interest  in  him 
or  in  any  other  man  alive.” 

“Oh,  Lily!”  Emma  cried;  and  then  she  sat  open- 
mouthed  and  round-eyed,  staring  in  perfect  in¬ 
credulity.  “Oh,  L^7y.'” 


“What’s  the  matter?” 


MIRACULOUS  ACCIDENT  343 

Emma  still  stared;  but  finally,  being  a  true  friend, 
she  half  gasped,  “Nothing!”  as  she  rose  to  go. 

She  was  still  round  of  eye,  though  her  mouth  had 
become  decorous  for  a  street  appearance,  when 
she  left  the  house  a  few  moments  later;  and  Lily 
was  not  much  better  pleased  with  her  friend  Emma 
than  she  had  been  with  the  two  taunting  girls  in  the 
park. 

Nor  were  these  three  the  sum  of  all  who  displeased 
her.  She  went  to  a  “tea,”  and  easily  perceived 
that  she  became  instantly  the  centre  of  all  interest; — 
but  she  did  not  like  the  interest.  Whispering  and 
half-suppressed  laughter  buzzed  about  her;  eyes 
were  furtively  upon  her  wherever  she  glanced;  elderly 
women  looked  at  her  and  talked  behind  their  hands; 
and  she  was  uncomfortably  aware  of  a  wondering 
derision  focussing  constantly  upon  her.  She  came 
away  shivering,  marvelling  at  the  pettiness  of  human 
nature  that  could  make  such  a  disagreeable  pother 
over  a  girl’s  doing  her  simple  best  to  atone  for  a 
moment’s  carelessness  with  a  golf  club.  Moreover, 
before  she  got  out  of  the  gate  she  found  herself 
surrounded  by  a  group  of  newcomers,  girls  of  her  own 
age,  who  repeated  almost  precisely  the  performance 
of  the  two  in  the  park.  “  How  long  do  you  think  you 


344 


WOMEN 


can  keep  his  head  from  fitting  together  where  you 
broke  it,  Lily?”  This  was  the  last  thing  she  heard 
from  the  group  near  the  gate,  except  for  a  loud  burst 
of  unfriendly  laughter.  She  began  to  be  seriously 
indignant. 


xxvin 


A  PUBLIC  MOCKEKT 


Not  much  time  was  granted  her  indignation 
to  cool; — it  became  outright  fury  not 
twenty-four  hours  later;  and  the  occasion 
of  this  change  for  the  worse  was  a  spectacular  little 
performance  on  the  part  of  the  gentleman  for  whom 
her  emotions  had  forever  ceased  to  stir — that  un¬ 
happy  Henry  so  recently  dismissed.  And  since 
Henry’s  performance  took  place  ‘‘in  public,”  accord¬ 
ing  to  Lily’s  definition  of  its  background,  her  fury 
was  multiplied  in  intensity  by  a  number  correspond¬ 
ing  to  the  number  of  witnesses  present  at  the 
spectacle. 

One  of  these  was  Mr.  James  Herbert  McArdle, 
who  was  seated  beside  her  at  the  time.  She  was 
accompanying  him  for  a  drive,  as  she  had  promised 
him;  and  his  choice  for  the  excursion  had  been  an 
open  red  car,  noticeable  also  in  contour  and  dimen¬ 
sions.  The  top  was  folded  back,  so  that  Lily  and  her 

escort,  both  richly  shrouded  in  furs,  presented  to  the 

345 


346 


WOMEN 


world  a  fast-flying  sketch  of  affluent  luxury.  A 
fleeting  glimpse  of  beauty  might  be  caught  there,  too; 
for  Lily’s  colour  was  high,  and  sunshine  glinted  in  her 
hair;  amber  lights  danced  from  it  and  blue  sparklings 
from  her  eyes  as  she  sped  by. 

At  one  point,  however,  the  fast-flying  sketch 
ceased  to  fly,  and  halted,  affording  spectators  more 
leisure  for  observation;  but  this,  as  presently  ap¬ 
peared,  was  just  the  wrong  point  for  such  a  thing  to 
happen.  The  red  car,  returning  from  the  open  coun¬ 
try,  passed  into  the  suburban  outskirts,  and  Mr. 
McArdle  directed  the  chauffeur  to  turn  into  the 
country  club  driveway.  ‘T’ve  got  a  fancy  to  see 
where  our  friendship  began,”  he  said  to  Lily.  ‘T 
noticed  the  last  green  was  near  the  driveway.  Let’s 
go  look  at  it.” 

She  assented,  and  they  drove  to  the  spot  that 
interested  him;  but  they  found  it  inhabited.  A 
score  or  so  of  people  were  there,  watching  the  con¬ 
clusion  of  a  match  evidently  of  some  special  interest 
as  an  exhibition  of  proflciency.  When  the  red  car 
stopped,  the  last  shot  into  the  cup  was  in  the  final 
crisis  of  action,  and  a  popular  triumph  was  thereby 
attained,  as  the  spectators  made  plain.  They  in¬ 
stantly  raised  a  loud  shout,  acclaiming  the  success- 


A  PUBLIC  MOCKERY 


347 


ful  player,  cheering  him  and  rushing  forward  to  shake 
his  hand;  though  he,  himself,  seemed  far  from  elated. 

On  the  contrary,  there  gleamed  a  bitter  spark  in 
his  eye,  and  his  appearance,  though  manly,  was  one 
of  so  dark  a  melancholy  that  he  might  have  been 
thought  an  athletic  and  Americanized  Hamlet.  Not 
speaking,  he  waved  the  enthusiasts  away,  tossed 
his  club  to  his  caddy  and  turned  to  leave  the  green; 
but,  as  he  did  so,  his  glance  fell  upon  the  red  car 
in  the  driveway  near  by.  He  halted,  stock-still, 
while  a  thrilled  murmur  was  heard  rustling  among 
the  bystanders.  Everybody  stared  at  Lily,  at  her 
companion,  and  at  the  morbid  winner  of  the  golf 
match.  There  was  a  moment  of  potent  silence. 

Then  the  sombre  player  advanced  a  step  toward 
Lily  and,  looking  her  full  in  the  eye,  took  off  his  cap 
and  swept  the  ground  with  it  before  her  in  mocking 
salutation — derisive  humility  before  satirized  great¬ 
ness. 

A  startled  but  delighted  came  from  among 

the  people  about  the  green.  They  began  to  buzz, 
and  silvery  giggles  were  heard. 

Lily’s  eyes  shot  icy  fire  at  the  bowing  harlequin. 
“Tell  the  driver  to  go  on,”  she  said  to  McArdle. 

“Who  was  that  fellow?”  he  asked  her,  as  they 


348 


WOMEN 


drove  away.  “I  had  a  notion  to  get  out  and  see  if 
I  couldn’t  make  him  bow  even  a  little  lower.” 

“No,  no,”  she  said,  hastily.  “You  shouldn’t 
have.  You  aren’t  well  enough,  and,  besides,  he’s 
only  a  ruffian.” 

“But  who  is  he.f^” 

“I’ve  just  told  you,”  she  said,  fiercely.  “He’s 
a  ruffian.  His  name  is  Henry  Burnett,  if  you  want 
something  to  go  with  the  definition  of  him  I’ve  just 
given  you.” 

“But  what  did  he  do  it  for?  What  made  him 
bow  like  that?” 

“Because  he  is  a  ruffian!”  Lily  said.  Her  eyes 
were  not  less  fiery  than  they  had  been,  and  neither 
were  her  checks.  “I  believe  I  never  knew  what  it 
was  to  hate  anybody  before,”  she  went  on  in  a  low 
voice.  “When  I’ve  thought  I  hated  people  it  must 
have  been  j’ust  dislike.  I’m  sure  I’ve  never  known 
what  it  was  to  hate  anybody  as  he’s  j’ust  made  me 
hate  him.” 

“But  see  here!”  Young  Mr.  McArdle  was  dis¬ 
quieted.  “What’s  it  all  about?  Telling  me  he’s 
a  ruffian  doesn’t  explain  it.  What  made  him  do  it?  ” 

“ This,”  Lily  said  between  her  teeth.  “For  a  while 
I  thought  I  cared  a  little  about  him — not  much 


A  PUBLIC  MOCKERY  349 

but  some — enough  to  let  him  know  I  thought  so. 
Well,  I  found  I  didn’t.” 

“How’d  you  find  it  out.^^”  he  asked. 

“I  discovered  that  I  was  absolutely  indifferent 
to  him,  and  that  nothing  he  could  ever  do  would 
have  the  slightest  power  to  make  me  feel  anything 
whatever.  I  told  him  so  in  the  gentlest  way  I  could, 
and  since  then  he’s  behaved  like  the  brute  that  he 
is.” 

“But  is  it  true.f^” 

“Is  what  true?”  she  asked,  sharply. 

“I  mean,”  he  said,  “is  it  true  you’re  indifferent 
to  him?” 

“Good  heavens!”  she  cried,  with  the  utmost 
bitterness.  “Don’t  you  see  that  I  hate  him  so  that 
I’d  like  to  wring  his  neck?  I  would!”  she  cried, 
fiercely.  “I  could  almost  do  it,  too,  if  I  were  alone 
with  him  for  a  few  minutes!”  And  she  held  up  to 
his  view  her  slender  white-gloved  hands,  with  her 
fingers  curved  as  for  the  fatal  performance. 

Mr.  McArdle  seemed  to  be  relieved.  “Well, 
I  guess  it’s  all  right,”  he  said.  “That  is,  if  you’re 
sure  you  don’t  like  him.”  Then  as  she  turned 
angrily  upon  him,  he  added  hurriedly,  “And  I  see 
you  don’t.  I’m  sure  you  don’t.”  He  laughed 


350 


WOMEN 


with  a  slight  hint  of  complacency  not  unnatural  in 
an  important  and  well-petted  invalid.  ‘'I  think 
you  kind  of  owe  it  to  me  not  to  go  around  liking  other 
men  from  now  on.  I  mean — well,  you  know  how 
I’m  getting  to  feel  about  you,  I  guess.” 

Lily  sat  staring  straight  forward  at  the  chauffeur’s 
back,  though  that  was  not  what  she  saw.  What 
she  saw  was  the  tall  young  man  of  the  tragic  face, 
mocking  her  before  delighted  onlookers.  “I  know 
what  I  feel  about  AiW”  she  said,  too  preoccupied 
with  her  fury  to  listen  well  to  her  companion. 

“I’m  glad  you  do,”  he  said,  earnestly.  “I  wouldn’t 
like  to  feel  you  were  thinking  much  about  anybody 
but  me.  Of  course  I  know  you’ve  been  giving  me  a 
good  deal  of  your  time;  but  the  fact  is.  I’ll  want  you 
to  give  me  even  more  of  it,  especially  the  next  week 
or  so — before  my  mother  comes  out  to  visit  me. 
Will  you?” 

As  she  did  not  answer,  but  still  gazed  fiercely  at 
the  chauffeur’s  back,  he  repeated,  “Will  you?” 

“I  could!”  she  said;  but  this  was  evidently  not 
a  reply  to  his  question,  for  she  again  held  up  her 
curved  fingers  to  view.  “I  could,  and  I  would! 
If  I  were  left  alone  with  him  for  five  minutes  I  know 
I  would!” 


A  PUBLIC  MOCKERY 


351 


“Let’s  forget  him  just  now,”  young  Mr.  McArdle 
suggested.  “I  was  telling  you  about  my  mother’s 
coming  out  here  to  visit  me  in  a  week  or  so.  My 
family’s  really  pretty  terrible  about  keeping  tabs 
on  me,  you  know — I  mean,  for  fear  I’ll  get  engaged 
to  anybody  except  my  second  cousin  Lulu.  She’s 
one  of  the  female  branch  of  the  family,  you  know, 
that  married  into  the  banks,  and  pf  course  they  all 
feel  it  ought  to  be  kept  together,  and  Lulu  would 
be  a  great  advantage.  But  she’s  homely  as  sin,  and, 
so  far,  they’ve  had  a  pretty  hard  time  persuading 
me.  You  understand,  don’t  you?” 

“What?”  Lily  asked,  vaguely.  Then  she  drew  a 
deep  breath,  clenched  her  curved  fingers  tightly  upon 
the  fur  rug  and  said  virulently  to  herself:  “I  could 
do  it  and  sing  for  joy  that  I  had  done  it!”  How¬ 
ever,  in  the  ears  of  her  companion  this  was  only  an 
indistinct  murmur. 

“I  mean  I  suppose  you  understand  about  the 
family  and  all  that,”  he  said.  “My  mother’s  bound 
to  interfere,  of  course.  If  you  and  I  expect  to  see 
much  of  each  other  after  she  comes,  we’ll  have  a  fight 
on  our  hands,  because,  of  course,  the  family  won’t 
stand  for  my  getting  too  interested  in  anybody 
out  here.  Naturally,  they  don’t  expect  me  not  to 


352 


WOMEN 


have  a  good  time;  but  you  know  what  I  mean; — 
they  wouldn’t  stand  for  my  getting  serious,  I  mean.” 

He  was  serious  enough  just  then,  however;  that 
was  plain.  His  voice  was  almost  quaveringly  plain¬ 
tive,  in  fact,  as  he  leaned  toward  her.  “Lily,”  he 
said,  “I  expect  my  mother  would  like  you  all  right 
if  you  were  my  cousin  Lulu,  or  somebody  in  Lulu’s 
position;  but  the  way  things  are — well,  of  course 
she  isn’t  going  to.  She’s  going  to  make  an  awful 
fuss  if  I  try  to  go  about  with  you  at  all.  But  I’m 
willing  to  buck  up  to  her  and  see  if  we  can’t  pull 
it  off  anyhow.  Honestly,  I  am.  How  about  it?” 

“What?”  she  said,  absently,  still  looking  forward 
and  not  at  him.  “What  did  you  say?” 

“My  goodness!”  he  exclaimed,  blankly.  “I  don’t 
believe  you  were  even  listening 

“I’m  afraid  I  wasn’t.” 

At  that,  a  natural  resentment  deepened  the  colour 
in  this  important  young  man’s  cheeks.  “Well, 
I  should  think  it  might  be  considered  worth  your 
while,”  he  said.  “I  don’t  put  too  much  on  being 
James  Herbert  McArdle,  Third,  I  believe;  but  at 
least  I  might  claim  it  isn’t  a  thing  that  happens 
every  day  in  the  world,  exactly — my  asking  a  girl 
to  marry  me,  I  mean.” 


A  PUBLIC  MOCKERY  353 

She  turned  to  him,  frowning.  “Was  that  what 
you  were  doing?” 

“I  was  telling  you  I  hoped  to  make  a  try  for  it,” 
he  explained  a  little  querulously.  “When  my 
mother  comes  and  hears  about  this  she’ll  send  for 
my  father  probably  and  there’ll  be  a  big  fuss — more 
than  you  could  have  any  idea  of  until  you  really 
hear  it.  But  I  never  took  to  any  girl  as  much  as 
I’ve  taken  to  you,  never  in  my  life.”  Here  his 
querulousness  gave  way  to  another  feeling  and  his 
voice  softened.  “I’m  ready  to  buck  up  to  the 
whole  crew  of  ’em  for  your  sake,  Lily.  What  about 
it?” 

She  looked  at  him  blankly.  “I  don’t  know,”  she 
said. 

“What?”  he  cried.  “Don’t  you  understand? 
I’m  asking  you  to  marry  me!” 

“Yes,”  she  said.  “I  hear  you  say  it;  but  so  far 
as  I’m  concerned  you  might  almost  as  well  be  telling 
me  it’s  a  pleasant  day!  I’m  not  in  the  right  state 
to  think  about  it  or  even  to  understand  it.” 

“Why  not?” 

“Because,”  she  said,  “I’m  so  angry  I  don’t  know 
what  I’m  doing.” 

“Look  here - ” 


he  began;  but  said  no  more. 


354 


WOMEN 


and,  in  spite  of  her  preoccupation  with  her  anger, 
she  was  able  to  perceive  that  he  now  had  some  of 
his  own.  She  put  her  hand  lightly  upon  his  sleeve 
and,  simultaneously,  the  car  stopped  at  the  hospital 
door. 

“Forgive  me,”  she  said.  “I’m  afraid  I’m  terribly 
rude.  But  don’t  you  know  there  are  times  when 
you  get  so  furious  you  just  canH  think  about  anything 
else.?” 

“Can’t  you.?”  he  returned,  coldly,  as  the  chauffeur 
helped  him  down  from  the  car.  “I’m  afraid  I  doubt 
if  you’d  ever  consider  what  I  was  saying  as  of  enough 
importance  to  listen  to.” 

“I’m  so  sorry,”  Lily  said;  and  in  spite  of  herself 
she  said  it  absently;  so  that  nothing  could  have  been 
plainer  than  that  her  mind  was  not  even  upon  this 
apology,  but  altogether  upon  the  offence  she  had  re¬ 
ceived  from  Mr.  Henry  Burnett. 

A  special  attendant  of  the  convalescent’s  came 
from  within  the  building  and  offered  his  arm.  Young 
Mr.  McArdle  took  it  and  gave  a  final  glance  at  the 
flushed  cheeks  and  fiery  eyes  of  the  lady  who  had 
already  twice  smitten  him  and  thus  smote  him  again. 
Something  hot  in  his  upper  chest  seemed  to  rise 
against  this  provincial  and  suburban  young  woman 


A  PUBLIC  MOCKERY 


355 


who  was  too  busy  being  furious  with  a  local  nonentity 
to  know  what  she  was  doing  indeed!  The  affronted 
young  man’s  last  word  was  to  the  chauffeur. 

“When  you  have  taken  Miss  Dodge  home  I  sha’n’t 
want  you  until  day-after-to-morrow.  I  don’t  care 
to  drive  every  day.” 

Lily  was  borne  away  murmuring,  “I’m  sorry,” 
again,  but  what  she  thought  was:  “I  could!  I  could 
wring  Henry  Burnett’s  neck  and  sing  for  joy!” 

.  .  .  When  the  long  red  car  drew  up  before  her 

father’s  house,  there  was  another  machine  standing 
at  the  curb,  a  small  black  thing  of  the  hardiest 
variety  and  odiously  familiar  to  Lily.  She  jumped 
out,  and,  shaking  with  rage  and  her  desire  to  ex¬ 
press  it,  fairly  ran  up  the  brick  walk  to  her  front 
door. 

But  here  a  housemaid  sought  to  detain  her,  whis¬ 
pering  urgently:  “Mr.  Burnett’s  in  the  living-room, 
waiting.  Your  mother  isn’t  home  and  I  didn’t  know 
how  to  keep  him  out.  If  you  don’t  want  to  see  him 
you’d  better  go  round  to  the - ” 

Lily  interrupted  her.  “I  do  want  to  see  him,” 
she  declared  in  a  loud  voice.  “I  want  to  see  him 
instantly!  ”  And  she  swept  into  the  room  to  confront 
the  mocker. 


356 


WOMEN 


But  mockery  was  no  part  of  Mr.  Henry  Burnett’s 
present  mood — far  from  it.  He  had  come  to  apolo¬ 
gize,  and  apology  was  profoundly  in  his  manner 
as  he  rose  from  the  chair  in  which  he  had  been  most 
dejectedly  sitting.  Dark  semicircles  beneath  his 
eyes  were  proof  of  inner  sufferings;  he  was  haggard 
with  his  trouble  and  more  Hamlet-like  than  ever; 
but  now  he  was  a  Hamlet  truly  humble. 

“Lily,”  he  said,  huskily,  “I’d  sworn  to  myself  I’d 
never  make  another  attempt  to  see  you  as  long  as  I 
lived,  but  after  what  I  did  awhile  ago  I  had  to. 
I  had  to  explain  it.  It  was  in  vile  taste,  and  you  can’t 
think  any  worse  of  it  than  I  do.  But  you  came  on 
me  suddenly.  I  hadn’t  dreamed  I’d  see  you;  then  all 
at  once  I  looked  up  and  there  you  were — and  with 
the  man  you  threw  me  over  for !  I  just  couldn’t - ” 

“Henry  Burnett,”  she  said,  and  her  hot  little  voice 
shook  with  the  rage  that  vibrated  in  her  whole  body; 
— “you  used  to  be  a  gentleman.  Twice  within 
less  than  an  hour  you’ve  shown  me  you’ve  forgotten 
what  that  word  means.” 

“Twice,  Lily?”  he  said,  pathetically;  “I  admit  the 
other  time — out  at  the  club — ^but  how  have  I  offended 
you  besides  that?” 

“In  your  very  apology,”  she  told  him  scornfully. 


A  PUBLIC  MOCKERY  357 

“You’ve  just  had  the  petty  insolence  to  stand  there 
and  say  I  threw  you  over  for  Mr.  McArdle!” 

“But  you  did,”  he  said;  and  he  seemed  surprised 
that  she  should  not  admit  it.  “Why,  it’s — why, 
Lily,  everybody  knows  that!” 

“What.^  You  dare  to  repeat  it?” 

He  looked  at  her  in  the  most  reasonable  astonish¬ 
ment,  his  eyes  widening.  “But,  Lily,  I’m  not  the 
only  one.  Everybody  repeats  it.” 

“Who  does?” 

“Everybody,”  he  said.  “You  certainly  couldn’t 
expect  a  thing  like  this  not  to  be  talked  about,  with 
the  whole  place  in  the  state  of  excitement  it  was  about 
McArdle’s  coming  here,  let  alone  what’s  happened 
since.  I  had  no  idea  you’d  deny  it  to  me  now,  though 
I  supposed  you  might  to  other  people,  as  a  matter  of 
form.  Of  course  no  one  would  believe  it  could  be  a 
coincidence.” 

She  stepped  closer  to  him  dangerously.  “No 
one  would  believe  what  could  be  a  coincidence, 
Henry  Burnett?” 

“That  you  threw  me  over  just  by  chance  the  very 
day  before  McArdle  came  to  town  and  you  took  that 
shot  at  him.” 


“I  did  what^^^ 


358 


WOMEN 


“Hit  him  in  the  head,”  Henry  explained.  “Your 
name  didn’t  get  in  the  papers;  but  you  don’t  for  a 
moment  imagine  that  everybody  in  town  doesn’t 
understand,  do  you,  Lily.?” 

She  stamped  her  foot.  “Understand  what.?  What 
are  you  talking  about,?  What  does  everybody 
understand.?  ” 

“Your  plan,”  he  said,  simply.  “You  don’t  think 
you  can  lay  out  a  man  like  that — a  man  that  every 
other  girl  in  the  place  is  ready  to  fight  you  for — you 
don’t  think  you  can  do  it  in  such  a  way  as  to  make 
you  the  only  girl  who  has  a  chance  to  see  him,  and 
then  spend  all  your  time  with  him,  and  day  after  day 
send  him  so  many  bushels  of  flowers  that  the  florist 
himself  gasps  over  it — and  read  to  him  hour  after 
hour,  and  drive  more  hours  with  him — you  can’t  do 
all  that  and  expect  people  not  to  see  it,  can  you.?” 

Lily’s  high  colour  was  vanishing,  pallor  taking  its 
place.  “You  needn’t  believe  I  don’t  hate  you  be¬ 
cause  I  stop  telling  you  so  for  a  moment,”  she  said. 
“But  there’s  a  mystery  somewhere,  and  I’ve  got  to 
get  at  it.  What  do  you  mean  I  mustn’t  expect  peo¬ 
ple  not  to  see.?” 

“Why,  the  truth  about  how  he  got  hurt.” 


A  PUBLIC  MOCKERY 


359 


Lily  stepped  back  from  him.  “Henry  Burnett,” 
she  said,  “Henry  Burnett,  do  you  dare - ” 

Henry  interrupted  her.  He  had  come  to  apolo¬ 
gize;  but  what  he  believed  to  be  her  hypocrisy  was 
too  much  for  him.  “I  don’t  see  the  use  of  your 
pretending,”  he  said.  “The  whole  population  knows 
you  did  it  on  purpose.” 

“Did  what  on  purpose.?” 

“Hit  him  in  the  head  with  your  golf  ball  on 
purpose!” 

Lily  uttered  a  loud  cry  and  clasped  her  hands  to 
her  breast.  Aghast,  she  stared  at  him  with  incredu¬ 
lous  great  eyes;  but  even  as  she  stared,  her  mind’s 
eye  renewed  before  itself  some  painful  pictures  that 
had  mystified  her — the  spitefully  uproarious  girls  in 
the  park;  her  friend,  Emma;  the  buzzing  “tea”; 
the  group  at  the  gate  as  she  came  out; — and  there 
were  other  puzzles  that  explained  themselves  in  the 
dreadful  light  now  shed  upon  them.  Uttering 
further  outcries,  she  sank  into  a  chair. 

“  Slander !  ”  she  gasped.  “  Oh,  a  horrible  slander !  ” 

“What.?”  Henry  cried  again.  “When  everybody 
knows  the  things  you  can  do  with  a  golf  ball  if  you 
care  to?  When  that  professional  trick-player  gave 


360 


WOMEN 


his  exhibition  here,  knocking  five  balls  into  five 
hats  in  a  row,  and  all  that,  how  many  of  his  shots 
didn’t  you  duplicate  after  you’d  practised  them? 
And  some  of  the  girls  talked  to  the  caddy  McArdle 
had  with  him  when  it  happened,  and  the  boy  said 
he  didn’t  think  you  were  over  forty  yards  away 
when  you  hit  him.  Lily,  there  isn’t  a  soul  that  knows 
you  who’ll  ever  believe  you  didn’t  do  exactly  what 
you  planned  to  do.  I  don’t  mean  they  think  you 
could  do  it  every  time,  or  that  they’re  all  certain 
you  aimed  at  his  head;  but  they  all  believe  you  tried 
to  hit  him — and  succeeded!” 

“And  you  do?”  she  said.  ^^You  believe  it?” 

He  laughed  bitterly.  “Lily,  it’s  clear  as  daylight, 
and  I  knew  it  when  I  looked  up  and  saw  you  with 
him  to-day.  I  knew  you’d  won  what  you  were 
after.  It  was  in  his  face.” 

Lily  gulped  and  smiled  a  wry  smile.  “I  see,” 
she  said.  “It  all  works  out,  and  nobody’ll  ever 
believe  I  didn’t  plan  it.  Yes,  I  think  he  proposed 
to  me  on  the  way  home  this  afternoon.” 

“Let  me  wish  you  happiness,”  Henry  said,  and 
seemed  disposed  to  repeat  his  satiric  bow,  but 
thought  better  of  it.  “Is  the  engagement  to  be  a 
long  one?”  he  inquired,  lightly,  instead;  and  this 


A  PUBLIC  MOCKERY 


361 


seemed  to  be  as  effective  as  the  bow,  for  Lily  sprang 
up,  as  if  she  would  strike  him. 

“I  could  murder  you!”  she  cried.  “And,  oh,  how 
I’d  like  to!  I’m  not  sure  Mr.  McArdle  proposed  to 
me;  I  only  think  he  did.  I  told  him  I  couldn’t  listen 
because  I  was  too  angry.” 

“Too  angry  with  whom.^^”  Henry  asked,  frowning. 

“With  you!*'  Lily  shouted  fiercely. 

At  that,  it  was  his  turn  to  utter  a  loud  cry.  “Lily, 
is  it  true?  Did  you  hate  me  so  that  you  couldn’t 
even  listen  to  him?  Is  it  true?” 

“A  thousand  times  true!”  she  said,  and,  in  her 
helpless  rage,  began  to  weep.  “But  I  hate  you  worse 
than  that!” 

“And  you  sent  me  away  because  I  couldn’t  make 
you  feel  anything!”  he  cried.  “Lily,  when  will  you 
marry  me?” 

“Do  you  think  I’d  ever  be  engaged  to  you  again,” 
she  sobbed,  “when  you  believed  I’d  do  a  brutal  thing 
like  that  on  purpose?” 

“Lily,”  he  said  again,  “when  will  you  marry  me?” 

“Never,”  she  answered.  “I’ll  never  marry  any¬ 
body.”  But  even  as  she  spoke,  the  fortunate  young 
man’s  shoulder  was  becoming  damper  with  her  tears. 


XXIX 

MRS.  Cromwell’s  oldest  daughter 

A  LL  of  the  players  except  three  had  returned 
/-A  to  the  clubhouse  before  the  close  of  the  fine 
^  April  afternoon,  and,  after  an  interval  in 
the  locker  rooms,  had  departed  either  in  their  cars 
or  strolling  away  on  foot,  homeward  bound  to  the 
pleasant  groups  of  suburban  houses  east  of  the  coun¬ 
try  club.  Westward  lay  the  links,  between  ploughed 
fields  and  groves  of  beech  and  ash  and  maple,  a 
spacious  park  of  rolling  meadows  with  a  far  boundary 
of  woodland,  and,  beyond  that,  nothing  but  a  smoky 
sunset.  All  was  quiet;  there  were  no  sounds  from 
within  the  clubhouse,  nor  came  any  from  the  links; 
and  although  no  kine  wound  slowly  o’er  the  lea 
and  no  ploughman  plodded  his  weary  way,  the  im¬ 
pending  twilight  in  such  a  peace  might  well  have 
stirred  a  poetic  observer  to  murmurous  quotation 
from  the  Elegy.  Nevertheless,  in  this  sweet  evening 

silence,  emotion  was  present  and  not  peaceful. 

362 


MRS.  C.’S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  363 


There  was  emotion  far  out  upon  the  links,  and 
there  was  more  upon  the  western  veranda  of  the  club¬ 
house  where  two  ladies  sat,  not  speaking,  but  gazing 
intently  toward  where  the  dim  and  hazy  great  sun 
was  immersing  itself  in  the  smoke  of  the  horizon. 
These  two  emotional  ladies  were  sisters;  that  was 
obvious,  for  they  shared  a  type  of  young  matronly 
fairness  so  decidedly  that  a  photograph  of  one  might 
have  been  mistaken,  at  first  glance,  for  that  of  the 
other. 

A  student  of  families,  observing  them,  would  have 
guessed  immediately  that  their  mother  was  a  fair 
woman,  probably  still  comely  with  robust  good 
health,  and  of  no  inconsiderable  weight  in  body  as 
well  as  in  general  prestige.  The  two  daughters 
were  large  young  women,  but  graceful  still;  not  so 
large  as  they  were  going  to  be  some  day,  nor  less 
well-favoured  than  they  had  been  in  their  slenderer 
girlhood.  They  were  alike,  also,  in  the  affluence 
displayed  by  the  sober  modishness  of  what  they  wore; 
and  other  tokens  of  this  affluence  appeared  upon  the 
club  driveway,  where  waited  two  shining,  black, 
closed  cars,  each  with  a  trim  and  speechless  driver 
unenclosed.  The  sisters  were  again  alike  in  the 
expectancy  with  which  they  gazed  out  upon  the 


364 


WOMEN 


broad  avenue  of  the  golf  links;  but  there  was  a  differ¬ 
ence  in  their  expressions; — for  the  expectancy  of 
the  younger  one  was  a  frowning  expectancy,  an 
indignant  expectancy,  while  the  expectancy  of  the 
other,  who  was  only  a  year  or  two  the  older,  appeared 
to  be  a  timid  and  apprehensive  expectancy — an  ex¬ 
pectancy,  in  fact,  of  calamity. 

This  elder  sister  was  the  one  who  broke  the  long 
silence,  though  not  by  uttering  words,  the  sound  she 
produced  being  an  exclamatory  gasp  and  but  faintly 
audible.  It  appeared  to  be  comprehended  as  definite 
information,  however,  by  the  younger  sister. 

“Where,  Mildred.? ”  she  asked.  “I  don’t  see  them 
yet.” 

The  other’s  apprehension  was  emphasized  upon 
her  troubled  forehead,  as  she  nodded  in  the  direction 
of  the  far  boundary  of  the  links.  There,  upon  the 
low  crest  of  rising  ground  capped  with  the  outermost 
green,  appeared  six  tiny  figures,  dwindled  by  the 
distance  and  dimmed  by  the  mist  that  rose  into  the 
failing  light.  For  the  sun  was  now  so  far  below  the 
dark  horizon  that  the  last  ruddiness  grew  dingy  in 
the  sky. 

“Yes,”  said  the  younger  sister,  and  her  angry 
frown  deepened.  “It’s  they.” 


MRS.  C.’S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  365 


“Oh,  Anne!”  the  older  murmured.  “Oh,  Anne!” 

“Yes,  I  should  say  so!”  this  Anne  returned,  de¬ 
cisively.  “I  certainly  intend  to  express  myself  to 
my  husband,  Mildred.” 

Mildred  shook  her  head  unhappily.  “If  I  only 
could  to  mine!  But  that’s  just  what  I  can’t  do.” 

“I  don’t  know,”  the  other  said.  “I  think  in  your 
place  I  should;  though  it’s  true  I  can’t  imagine  myself 
in  your  place,  Mildred.  My  husband  has  his  faults, 
and  one  of  ’em’s  the  way  he’s  letting  himself  be  used 
to-day,  but  I  can’t  imagine  his  behaving  as  your 
husband  is  behaving.  Not  that  way!” 

She  made  an  impatient  gesture  toward  the  west, 
where  the  six  figures  had  left  the  green  and  were  now 
moving  toward  the  clubhouse,  three  of  them  playing 
deliberately  as  they  came,  with  three  smaller  figures, 
the  caddies,  in  advance.  One  of  the  players  detached 
himself,  keeping  to  the  southern  stretch  of  the  fair¬ 
way;  while  the  two  others,  a  man  and  a  woman, 
kept  to  the  northern,  walking  together,  each  halting 
close  by  when  the  other  paused  for  a  stroke. 

“Can  you  make  out  which  is  which,  Anne?”  the 
older  sister  inquired  in  a  voice  of  faint  hope.  “Isn’t 
it  John  who’s  playing  off  there  by  himself,  and 
Hobart  she  keeps  so  close  to  her?” 


366 


WOMEN 


“Not  very  likely!”  Anne  returned  with  a  short 
laugh.  “She’s  using  my  husband  as  a  chaperon 
strictly,  and  I  must  say  he’s  behaving  like  a  tactful 
one.  It’s  your  John  she  ‘keeps  so  close  to  her’ — 
as  usual,  Mildred!” 

Mildred  made  merely  a  desolate  sound,  and  then 
the  sisters  resumed  the  troubled  silence  that  falls 
between  people  who  have  long  since  discussed  to  a 
conclusion  every  detail  of  an  unhappy  affair,  and 
can  only  await  its  further  development. 

The  three  players  came  nearer  slowly,  growing 
dimmer  in  the  evening  haze  as  they  grew  larger; 
until  at  last  it  was  difficult  to  see  them  at  all.  Other 
things  were  as  dim  as  they,  the  player  to  the  south 
found  to  his  cost;  and,  finally  deciding  to  lose  no 
more  balls  that  day,  he  crossed  the  fairway  to  his 
competitors. 

“I’m  through,  John,”  he  called,  cheerfully.  “It’s 
no  use  in  the  world  trying  to  play  out  these  last  two 
holes.” 

“I  don’t  suppose  it  is,”  the  other  man  assented. 
“Julietta  rather  wanted  to,  though.”  He  turned 
to  the  tall  girl  beside  him.  “Hobart  says - ” 

“I  heard  him!”  she  said,  laughing  a  light  laugh,  a 
little  taunting  in  its  silveriness.  “Hobart’s  a  well- 


MRS.  C.’S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  367 

trained  husband.  You  know  what  that  is,  don’t 
you,  John?  A  well-trained  husband  is  one  who 
doesn’t  dare  to  call  his  soul  his  own.  Hobart’s  been 
worrying  this  last  half  hour  about  what  Mrs.  Simms 
will  say  to  him  for  keeping  her  waiting.” 

“You’re  right  about  that,  Julietta,”  Mr.  Hobart 
Simms  agreed.  “My  wife’s  a  pretty  amiable  lady; 
but  I’ve  kept  her  waiting  longer  than  I  like  to,  and 
old  John’s  done  the  same  thing.  So,  as  he’s  probably 
in  the  same  apologetic  state  I’m  in,  and  it’s  ridiculous 
to  try  to  play  these  last  two  holes  in  the  pitch  dark 

anyhow,  I  suggest  we - ” 

The  girl  interrupted  him,  though  it  was  to  his 
brother-in-law  that  she  addressed  herself.  ^^Are 
you  in  the  ‘same  apologetic  state’  that  Hobart  is, 
John?”  she  asked;  and  there  was  an  undercurrent 
in  her  voice  that  seemed  to  ask  more  than  appeared 
upon  the  surface.  She  seemed  to  challenge,  in  fact, 
and  yet  to  plead.  “Are  you  as  afraid  of  Mrs. 
Tower  as  Hobart  is  of  Mrs.  Simms,  John?” 

Mr.  Tower  laughed  placatively.  “My  dear 

Julietta!  Of  course  if  you’d  like  to  play  it  out - ” 

“There!”  Julietta  said,  gaily  triumphant.  “You 
see  he  wants  to,  himself.  I  believe  you’re  the  one 
man  I  know  who  isn’t  terrorized  by  a  wife,  John.” 


368 


WOMEN 


She  stepped  closer  to  him,  speaking  through  the 
darkness  in  a  warm,  soft  voice,  almost  a  whisper. 
“But  then  you’re  a  wonderful  man,  anyhow — the 
most  wonderful  I  ever  knew,  John.” 

‘  ‘  Oh,  no !”  He  laughed  deprecatingly,  and,  pleased 
with  her,  yet  embarrassed  by  his  modesty,  coughed 
lightly  for  a  moment  or  two.  “Of  course  I’m  not; 
but  I  do  value  your  thinking  so,  Julietta.  I  ap¬ 
preciate  it  very  deeply  indeed.” 

“Are  you  sure  you  do?”  she  said  in  a  hurried 
whisper,  so  low  that  he  could  just  hear  it.  Then 
she  turned  briskly  toward  his  brother-in-law,  who 
stood  at  a  little  distance,  waiting  their  pleasure. 
“Run  along,  Hobart,  and  please  tell  Mrs.  Tower  I 
haven’t  kidnapped  him; — he’s  staying  to  play  it  out 
with  me  of  his  own  free  will.  And  please  pay  all  the 
caddies  off  and  let  them  go.  We  don’t  need  them, 
and  they’re  dying  to  get  home.” 

He  was  obedient,  and  from  the  clubhouse  veranda, 
where  lights  now  shone,  it  could  be  discerned  that 
the  party  on  the  links  had  broken  up.  The  caddies 
ran  scurrying  by,  their  shrill  outcries  disturbing 
the  air  about  them,  and,  in  their  wake,  the  slight 
figure  of  Mr.  Hobart  Simms  appeared  within  the 
radius  of  illumination  from  the  building. 


MRS.  C.*S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  369 


‘‘They’re  coming,”  Anne  Simms  said  to  her 
sister.  “Don’t  let  them  see  anything.” 

Mr.  Simms  mounted  the  dozen  steps  that  led  up 
to  the  veranda.  “Dear  me,  Anne!”  he  said.  “I’m 
afraid  you’ve  been  waiting  quite  a  time.  I  can’t 
tell  you  how  sorry - ” 

But  she  cut  his  apology  short.  “Where’s  John?” 

“Old  John?  Why,  I  gave  up;  but  he’s  decided  to 
play  it  out.  Old  John  and  I  started  pretty  late 
anyhow,  and  we  were  playing  around  with  Julietta 
Voss,  as  it  happened - ” 

“Yes,”  his  wife  said,  dryly,  “‘as  it  happens’  rather 
often!  Where  are  they?” 

“Just  out  yonder.” 

“Where?  We  can’t  see  anybody.” 

“Well,  they’re  there  anyhow,”  he  returned. 
'‘They’ll  be  along  in  a  minute  or  two.” 

Mrs.  Simms  rose  from  her  chair.  “Suppose  you 
go  and  bring  them,”  she  said. 

But  before  he  could  make  any  response,  her  sister 
intervened.  “No!  Oh,  no.'”  Mildred  cried  in  a 
voice  of  distress,  and,  rising,  too,  she  caught  Anne’s 
hand  in  hers.  “Don’t  send  him!  It  would  look 
as  if - ”  She  stopped,  perceptibly  agitated. 

The  surprise  of  the  gentleman  present  was  genuine. 


370 


WOMEN 


though  not  so  acute  as  that  of  an  inexperienced  man 
who  expects  ladies  never  to  show  unreasonable  and 
apparently  causeless  emotion.  “Why,  what’s  the 
matter?”  he  said.  “It  doesn’t  seem  to  me  that  just 
because  two  people  happen  to  get  interested  in  the 
game - ” 

“Never  mind!”  his  wife  said,  sharply.  “If  you 
intend  to  take  your  clubs  down  to  the  locker  room 
you’d  better  be  doing  it.” 

“Very  well.”  He  entered  the  clubhouse  through  a 
French  window  that  opened  upon  the  veranda,  and 
his  surprise  was  somewhat  increased  when  his  wife 
followed  him. 

“Wait,”  she  said,  as  she  closed  the  window  behind 
her.  “Hobart  Simms,  I  never  dreamed  you’d  allow 
yourself  to  be  put  in  such  a  position.” 

“  What?  ”  he  said.  “  What  position  am  I  in?  ” 

“I  didn’t  think  you  were  this  kind  of  man  at  all,” 
his  wife  informed  him  with  continued  severity.  “I 
always  believed  you  were  intelligent — even  about 
women!” 

“Oh,  no,”  he  protested.  “Don’t  go  so  far  as 
that,  my  dear !  ”  He  laughed  as  he  spoke,  but  despite 
both  his  protest  and  his  laughter,  his  looks  deserved 
what  Mrs.  Simms  declared  to  have  been  her  previous 


MRS.  C.’S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  371 


opinion  of  him.  Bodily,  he  was  still  a  feather¬ 
weight,  and  of  that  miraculous  slimness  which  appears 
inconsistent  with  the  possession  of  the  organs  neces¬ 
sary  to  sustain  life;  but  his  glance  was  the  eagle’s. 

‘T  did  think  so!”  his  wife  exclaimed.  ‘T  used  to 
think  you  were  diflPerent,  and  that  women  couldn’t 
fool  you  any  more  than  men  could.” 

“Anne,  what  woman  has  taken  enough  interest  in 
me  to  fool  me?” 

“Nobody.  She  doesn’t  take  any  interest  in  you; 
she  only  uses  you.” 

“Who  is  she?” 

The  lady  gave  utterance  to  an  outcry  of  indignant 
amazement  at  the  everlasting  stupidity  of  a  man 
beguiled  by  a  woman;  for,  in  spite  of  the  ages  during 
which  men  have  been  beguiled  by  women,  the  women 
who  are  not  doing  the  beguiling  never  cease  to  marvel 
that  it  can  be  done.  “You  poor  blind  thing!”  she 
cried.  “Julietta  Voss!” 

At  this  he  was  merely  amused.  “You’re  not 
feeling  well,  Anne,”  he  remarked.  “What  you  say 
doesn’t  sound  like  you  at  your  best.  I  never  heard 
anything  so - ” 

Mrs.  Simms  interrupted  him.  “Who  paid  her 
caddy?” 


S72 


WOMEN 


“I  did.  I  paid  both  hers  and  old  John’s,  but  I 
don’t  think  we  need - ” 

“What  made  you  keep  so  far  away  from  them? 
What  made  you  play  down  the  south  side  of  the 
course  and  leave  them  so  far  over  on  the  north? 
Did  she  ask  you  to?” 

“Good  gracious!”  he  exclaimed.  “It  just  hap¬ 
pened!  They  were  playing  the  same  ball,  against 
me.  Naturally - ” 

“‘Naturally,’”  she  said,  taking  up  the  word 
sharply,  “it  was  like  that  all  round  the  course,  wasn’t 
it?” 

“What  of  it?  I  understood  you  to  charge  me  with 
being  fooled  by  poor  little  Julietta - ” 

“Stop  calling  her  ‘little’,”  Mrs.  Simms  com¬ 
manded.  “She’s  a  foot  taller  than  you  are!” 

“Well,  then,”  he  mildly  remonstrated,  “with  all 
that  advantage,  what  would  she  take  the  trouble  to 
fool  me  for?  If  she  wanted  to  make  love  to  me 
she  could  do  it  openly,  by  force.” 

At  this,  his  wife’s  face  showed  sheer  despair  of 
him.  “I  just  said  that  she  doesn’t  take  the  slightest 
interest  in  you — except  as  a  foil!  This  is  the  third 
time.” 


“The  third  time  what?” 


MRS.  C.’S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  373 

“The  third  time  youVe  been  manoeuvred  into 
coming  out  here  to  play  with  them.  Good  heavens, 
don’t  you  see  it?” 

“No,”  he  returned,  meekly.  “Tell  me  in  words  of 
one  syllable,  Anne.” 

Mrs.  Simms  complied,  and  in  her  response  there 
was  that  direct  brevity  not  unusual  with  her  sex  in 
the  climaxes  of  bitter  moments.  “She’s  trying  to 
get  my  sister’s  husband  away  from  her!” 

The  bewilderment  of  Mr.  Simms  was  complete. 
“Old  John?”  he  cried.  “Old  John  Tower?  Poor 
little  Julietta  Voss  is  trying  to  get  old  John  away 

from  Mildred?  Of  all  the  preposterous - ”  His 

laughter  interrupted  his  enunciation.  “Why,  that’s 

the  most  far-fetched  fancy  work  I  ever -  But 

of  course  you  don’t  mean  it  seriously.” 

“I  do.” 

“But  it’s  nonsense!  Julietta’s  always  ready  to 
come  and  be  an  outdoor  comrade  for  anybody; 
but  it’s  only  because  she’s  such  a  good  fellow  she 
doesn’t  stop  to  care  whether  she’s  with  old  married 
men  like  John  and  me,  or  with  the  boys  of  her  own 
age  that  she’d  naturally  like  to  be  with  a  great  deal 
better  of  course.” 

“She’s  almost  my  own  age;  she’s  over  thirty,” 


374 


WOMEN 


the  grim  Mrs.  Simms  informed  him.  “The  ‘boys 
of  her  own  age’  are  busy  elsewhere.” 

“Well,  she  isn’t  that  kind  of  a  schemer,  no  matter 
what  her  age  is,  and  if  she  were,  why,  the  last  person 
on  earth  she’d  pick  out  would  be  steady  old  John 
Tower.  He’s  absolutely  devoted  to  Mildred,  and 
everybody  knows  it.  And,  finally,  if  poor  Julietta 
is  trying  to  break  up  Mildred’s  hearth  and  home, 
what  in  the  world  are  you  so  sharp  with  me  about 

If  it’s  John,  and  not  me  that  Julietta’s  after - ” 

“Didn’t  I  tell  you  she  uses  you  as  a  foil.f^  Who 
could  criticize  her  for  running  after  another  woman’s 
husband  when  his  own  brother-in-law  is  always 

chaperoning  them?  She  knows  there’s  talk - ” 

“She  does?  Well,  I  don’t.  You  say - ” 

“I  certainly  do.  Of  course  there’s  talk.  There 
has  been  for  some  time.” 

“Does  Mildred  share  your  idea?”  he  asked. 

“She  does — ^most  unhappily!” 

“Anne,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  as  sensible  a 
woman  as  Mildred’s  always  seemed  could  actually  let 

herself  get  worried  about - ” 

“Any  wife  would,”  Anne  interrupted,  severely. 
“Especially  with  a  husband  as  odd  as  John  Tower. 
So  far  as  women  are  concerned  he’s  nothing  but  a 


MRS.  C.’S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  375 


grown-up  child!  He  believes  everything  they  tell 
him,  and  Julietta  knows  it.  It’s  because  he  is  so 
perfectly  simple  and  naive  and  trustful — with 
women — that  Mildred  is  wretched  about  him.” 

“What’s  she  said  to  old  John  about  it?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Why  not?” 

“Because  if  she  did,”  Mrs.  Simms  explained,  “it 
might  look  as  if  she  were  jealous.” 

“Well,  she  is,  isn’t  she?” 

“Not  at  all.  She’s  terribly  hurt,  and  naturally 
she’s  angry  and  rather  disgusted  to  think  her  husband 
would  let  such  a  person  as  Julietta  Voss  have  so 
much  effect  upon  him.” 

Hobart’s  intelligent  forehead  became  lined  with 
the  effort  to  solve  the  puzzle  before  him.  “You  say 
she’s  terribly  hurt  and  she’s  angry  and  she’s  disgusted 
because  she  thinks  her  husband  is  letting  another 
woman  carry  on  with  him;  but  she’s  not  jealous. 
How  would  you  define  jealousy,  Anne?” 

“As  nothing  that  a  girl  like  Julietta  Voss  could 
make  a  lady  feel,”  Anne  returned,  with  no  little  heat. 
“Mildred  is  a  lady — and  I’m  going  back  to  her. 
Be  kind  enough  to  hurry  with  your  ablutions,  if 
you  intend  any.” 


376 


WOMEN 


He  went  away  meekly  to  obey,  and  when  he  re¬ 
turned  to  the  veranda  he  still  looked  meek,  though 
there  was  in  his  glance  a  sly  skepticism  readily 
visible  to  his  wife.  She  was  sitting  by  the  veranda 
railing  with  her  sister,  who  was  staring  forth  into  the 
darkness  in  a  manner  somewhat  pathetic;  but,  as 
her  brother-in-law  thought  her  imaginings  absurd, 
his  sympathies  were  not  greatly  roused.  “Hasn’t 
that  old  Don  Giovanni  of  yours  finished  playing  it 
out  yet,  Mildred?”  he  inquired. 

Both  ladies  looked  round  at  him  over  their  shoul¬ 
ders,  Mildred  piteously,  but  Anne  sternly.  “There’s 
one  great  trouble  with  an  unflagging  humour,”  Mrs. 
Simms  said.  “It  never  flags.” 

“Dear  me!”  he  exclaimed.  “If  Mildred  thinks 

poor  old  John  and  Julietta - Mildred,  you  don’t 

for  one  minute  honestly  and  truly - ” 

But  Mildred  made  a  gesture  of  agonized  entreaty. 
“Please !  Please ! ”  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  “ They’re 
coming!” 

A  peal  of  light  laughter  was  heard  from  the  dark¬ 
ness,  and  the  figures  of  the  two  delaying  players 
became  visible  within  the  outer  reaches  of  the  club¬ 
house  lights.  They  were  walking  slowly,  engaged  in 
obviously  cheerful  conversation,  and  from  the  shoul- 


MRS.  C.’S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  877 


ders  of  the  stalwart  Tower  were  slung  both  bags 
containing  the  implements  used  in  the  game  they 
had  been  playing.  It  was  characteristic  and  like 
old  John’s  punctilious  gallantry,  his  brother-in-law 
thought,  to  have  seized  upon  both  those  bags  the 
moment  the  caddies  were  dismissed.  Miss  Voss, 
almost  as  tall  as  he,  was  more  than  equal  to  carrying 
her  own  bag  without  effort. 

She  had  the  figure  of  a  distance  runner  in  train¬ 
ing,  lithe,  hard,  and  active;  and  there  was  something 
lively,  yet  hard,  too,  in  her  tanned  long  face,  which 
was  a  handsome  face  in  spite  of  its  length.  But  her 
eyes  were  what  was  most  noticeable  about  her,  for 
they  were  beautiful.  They  were  brilliantly  dark, 
and  at  times  seemed  to  hold  little  dancing  lights 
within  them,  as  if  they  gave  glimpses  of  secret  laugh¬ 
ter.  All  in  all,  she  was  a  cheery  companion  for  an 
outdoor  afternoon,  but  by  no  manner  of  means  a 
tricky  witch,  Mr.  Hobart  Simms  decided,  as  he  looked 
down  smilingly  upon  her  and  upon  that  odd  man, 
his  brother-in-law  and  junior  partner,  old  John 
Tower. 

“Old  John,”  of  an  age  not  more  than  Hobart’s, 
was  queer,  Hobart  thought;  but  his  queerness  did 
not  alter  the  simple  steadiness  of  character  that  made 


378 


WOMEN 


his  intimates  think  and  speak  of  him  as  ‘‘old  John.” 
Moreover,  his  oddity  lay  mainly  in  his  literal,  simple 
truthfulness  under  all  conditions,  in  his  belief  that 
others  were  as  truthful  as  himself,  and  in  an  inde¬ 
fatigable  formal  politeness  of  manner,  sometimes  a 
little  stately,  that  was  really  the  expression  of  a  kind 
heart. 

The  two  came  gaily  up  the  steps,  still  laughing 
at  something  said  out  of  hearing  from  the  veranda, 
and  Julietta  gave  a  final  fillip  to  their  joke  by  reeling 
against  her  companion  as  they  reached  the  top  step. 
She  steadied  herself  by  clutching  his  shoulder,  and 
seemed  almost  to  hang  upon  him,  for  a  moment  or 
two,  while  she  chid  him.  “Don’t  make  me  laugh 
any  more,  or  I’ll  give  you  up  as  a  partner  and  ab¬ 
solutely  not  play  with  you  again  to-morrow!”  Then 
she  turned  briskly  to  Mildred.  “I  hope  you  haven’t 
been  waiting  long  for  your  poor  abducted  husband, 
Mrs.  Tower.  I’m  afraid  he’s  the  kind  of  man  who 
never  gives  up  anything  he  sets  out  to  do,  even  when 
he  has  to  finish  it  in  the  dark.  I  suppose  that’s  why 
he’s  a  great  man.” 

“Do  you  think  he’s  a  great  man,  Julietta?  ”  Hobart 
Simms  inquired  in  a  carefully  naive  manner. 

“Everyone  knows  he  is,”  Julietta  returned,  “Of 


MRS.  C.’S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  S79 

course  you’re  a  great  man,  John,  since  Hobart  asks 
me!” 

“At  least,  it’s  most  lovely  of  you  to  say  you  think 
so,”  Mr.  Tower  responded,  bowing  his  dark  head 
before  her  gratefully.  “I’m  only  a  feeble  assistant 
to  Hobart  here,  who  really  is  a  great  man;  but  it’s 
charming  of  you  to  say  I’m  one,  too.  Really  it’s 
most  kind  of  you,  Julietta.”  He  turned  to  his  wife. 
“My  dear,  I  hope  you  haven’t  been  waiting  long,  and 
I  hope,  if  you  have,  you  haven’t  minded.” 

“No,  not  at  all,”  she  murmured.  “But  can’t  we 
go  now.^” 

“Just  a  moment.  I  must  take  these  bags  to  the 
locker  room  and  freshen  up  the  least  bit.  Julietta, 
if  you’ll  give  me  the  key  to  your  locker  I’ll  have  your 
bag  put  away  for  you.” 

But  Julietta  laughed  ruefully  and  shook  her  head. 
“Just  leave  the  bag  here.  It  takes  every  penny  of 
my  poor  little  allowance  to  keep  me  a  member  of 
the  club.  They  charge  too  much  for  lockers.  I 
told  you  the  other  day  I  didn’t  have  a  locker.” 

The  kindly  John  struck  his  hands  together  in  a 
sharp  sound;  he  was  shocked  by  his  forgetfulness. 
“Dear  me!  So  you  did!  Of  course,  you  must 
allow  me  to  make  up  for  my  omission.  I’d  meant 


S80 


WOMEN 


to  attend  to  that  yesterday.  Of  course  you  must 
have  a  locker.  I’ll  see  to  it  at  once  and  bring  you 
the  key.” 

Julietta  said  promptly,  “How  lovely  of  you!” 
and  he  went  toward  the  French  windows;  but  a 
murmur  from  his  wife  stopped  him. 

“John,  it’s  very  late.  Couldn’t  you  postpone 
seeing  about  lockers  and  things  like  that,  and  let’s 
be  starting  home?” 

“In  just  a  moment,  my  dear,”  he  said  in  the  kind¬ 
est  tone.  “I’ll  just  arrange  about  a  locker  for 
Julietta  and  leave  our  clubs.  It  won’t  take  a  mo¬ 
ment.” 

“He’s  so  thoughtful  always,”  Julietta  said,  looking 
after  him  gratefully  as  he  departed.  “I  think  I 
never  knew  a  man  so  careful  about  all  the  little 
things  most  men  don’t  seem  even  to  be  conscious 
of.” 

“Thanks,  Julietta,”  Mr.  Simms  said,  cheerfully, 
and  was  immediately  aware  that  his  wife  looked  at 
him  with  some  tensity.  She  had  not  spoken  since 
the  arrival  of  Julietta  and  her  companion  upon  the 
veranda.  “Thanks  for  the  rest  of  us.” 

“Oh,  you!”  Julietta  said;  and  the  dancing  lights 
in  her  extraordinary  eyes  sparkled  as  she  turned  to 


MES.  C.’S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  381 


him.  “You’re  a  great  man  really,  as  dear  old  John 
just  explained,  and  we  all  know  what  everybody 
says  about  you  and  Julius  Caesar — or  is  it  Napo¬ 
leon.?  You’ve  scattered  fortunes  around  among 
your  friends  taking  them  into  your  corporations, 
the  way  he  scattered  kingdoms  around  among  his 
relatives.  You’re  so  great  you  don’t  have  to  bother 
being  thoughtful  about  little  things.” 

“Julietta,”  he  responded,  “you  sound  like  a 
testimonial  banquet.  I  hope  you’ll  convince  my 
wife,  though.” 

“She’d  be  the  last  to  need  convincing,”  Julietta 
returned.  “Wouldn’t  you,  Mrs.  Simms?” 

“I  might  be,”  Anne  replied,  dryly.  “Hobart,  I 
think  you’d  better  run  and  tell  John  he’s  keeping 
us  all  waiting.” 

But  the  absent  gentleman  returned  before  his 
brother-in-law,  moving  to  obey,  could  go  in  search  of 
him;  and  he  came  with  a  key  in  his  hand.  “There, 
Julietta,  if  you’ll  be  so  kind  as  to  use  this - ” 

“You  dear  man!”  she  cried,  enthusiastically. 
“Now  just  for  that  I’m  going  to  forgive  you  for 
making  me  laugh  so  hard,  and  we’ll  finish  that 
game  to-morrow,  because  Hobart  didn’t  play  it  out 
with  us  to-day.  Don’t  you  think  we  could  all  three 


382  WOMEN 

be  here  a  wee  bit  earlier  to-morrow — say  by  four 
o’clock?” 

At  this,  Mildred  Tower  turned  to  her  sister  in  an 
almost  visible  appeal  for  help;  and  Anne  hurriedly 
endeavoured  to  respond  with  the  succour  besought. 

“So  far  as  Mr.  Simms  is  concerned - ”  she  began; 

but  Tower,  unaware  that  she  was  speaking,  had  al¬ 
ready  accepted  Julietta’s  invitation. 

•  “Delightful,”  he  said,  bowing.  “Julietta,  that 
will  be  delightful.  I  shall  be  here  by  four  o’clock 
promptly.  Thank  you  for  thinking  of  it.” 

“You’ll  be  sure  to  come,  too,  Hobart?”  Julietta 
asked. 

Hobart’s  wife  began  again,  and  her  tone  was  em- 

phatic.  “So  far  as  Mr.  Simms  is  concerned - ” 

But  again  she  was  interrupted,  this  time  by  her 
husband. 

“Why,  yes,  Julietta,”  he  said,  amiably,  “I’d  like 
very  much  to  play  it  out.  I’ll  be  here  at  four.” 

For  a  moment  or  two  there  was  a  silence  during 
which  his  consciousness  that  both  his  wife  and  his 
sister-in-law  were  looking  at  him  became  somewhat 
acute.  Then,  without  even  a  murmur  of  leave- 
taking  or  any  sound  at  all,  Mildred  Tower  walked 
quickly  to  the  steps,  descended  them,  and  went 


MRS.  C.’S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  383 


toward  the  waiting  cars.  Her  sister,  after  a  final 
look,  which  swept  scorchingly  over  both  gentlemen — • 
though  but  one  of  them,  her  husband,  was  aware  of 
its  heat — turned  sharply  away  and  hurried  after 
her. 

Only  the  best  of  women  are  capable  of  doing 
things  so  embarrassing,  thought  the  philosophical  Mr. 
Simms;  and  then  realized  that  his  brother-in-law 
was  not  embarrassed  at  all. 

“Wait  a  moment,  my  dear,”  Tower  called  placidly 
after  his  wife.  “Julietta  has  been  kind  enough  to 
say  we  could  drop  her  at  her  house  on  our  way. 
She’s  going  with  us.” 

No  response  came  from  the  hurrying  Mrs.  Tower. 

“My  dear!”  her  husband  called.  “Julietta  is 
going  to  permit  us - ”  Then,  as  Mildred  disap¬ 

peared  silently  into  the  interior  of  her  car,  he  re¬ 
marked  with  unsullied  confidence,  “She  doesn’t 
hear  me.” 

Julietta  laughed  and  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm, 
looking  up  at  him.  “Do  you  think  she  wants  me?” 

“My  dear  Julietta!  Of  course  she  does.  Every¬ 
body  wants  you.  Why  shouldn’t  she?” 

“Perhaps  she  thinks  I  live  too  far  out  of  your  way, 
and  she’s  in  a  hurry  to  eat  her  dinner,”  Julietta  said. 


384 


WOMEN 


wistfully.  “It  isn’t  everyone  that’s  too  generous 
to  keep  thinking  of  food  when  someone  needs  a  little 
lift.  It  isn’t  everybody  who  remembers  all  the 
little  thoughtful  things  as  you  do,  John,  you  know.” 

“Nonsense!”  he  exclaimed.  “Mildred  will  be 
only  too  delighted  to  have  you,  though  I  do  appreci¬ 
ate  your  kind  opinion  of  me.”  He  looked  down  at 
her  hand,  which  was  still  upon  his  coat  sleeve,  and, 
taking  it  in  one  of  his,  tucked  it  under  his  arm. 
“You’re  charming,  Julietta,”  he  said,  beaming  upon 
her.  “Indeed  you  are!  Perfectly  charming!  Shall 
we  go  down  and  get  into  the  car?” 

It  was  time  for  the  third  person  present  during 
this  little  interview  to  depart,  that  person  decided. 

Hobart!*’  his  wife  called  from  her  car,  and  her  voice 
was  threateningly  eloquent. 

Hobart  delayed  no  longer,  though  he  was  think¬ 
ing  with  some  concentration  just  then;  and,  bidding 
Miss  Voss  and  his  brother-in-law  a  quick  good-night, 
he  went  by  them  and  hurried  toward  the  summoning 
voice. 

Descending  the  steps  arm-in-arm,  and  talking, 
old  John  and  Julietta  did  not  seem  to  hear  the  word 
of  farewell; — ^Hobart  was  some  distance  away  when 
the  scrupulous  Tower  called  after  him:  “Hobart,  did 


MRS.  C/S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  385 


you  say,  *  Good-night’?  I  beg  your  pardon;  I  was 
listening  to  Julietta.  Good-night,  Hobart.  Good¬ 
night,  Anne.”  Then,  as  Hobart  got  into  his  own 
car,  he  could  hear  his  brother-in-law  busily  talking 
beside  the  other.  “And  now,  my  dear  Julietta,  if 
you’ll  be  so  kind  as  to  step  in  and  sit  beside  Mildred, 
I  believe  you’ll  be  quite  comfortable.  There’s  an 
extra  rug,  Julietta,  if  you - ” 

But  Mrs.  Simms  had  already  spoken  to  her  chauf¬ 
feur,  and  the  engine  was  in  motion.  As  they  drove 
away,  she  and  her  husband  could  still  hear  the 
thoughtful  old  John  addressing  himself  to  the  subject 
of  Julietta’s  comfort,  and  replying  to  her  thanks. 
“Not  at  all,  my  dear  Julietta;  it’s  the  greatest  im¬ 
aginable  pleasure.  And  if  you’ll  be  so  kind  as  to 
allow  me  to  place  this  other  rug  over  your  knees, 
Julietta - ” 

The  Simms’  car  passed  out  of  hearing,  and  within 
the  dark  interior  its  owner  continued  to  be  thought¬ 
ful.  He  was  still  certain  that  Mildred  indulged 
herself  in  mere  folly  when  she  worried  about  steady, 
simple  old  John.  But  he  was  not  so  sure  of  the  art¬ 
lessness  of  Julietta; — the  final  little  interview  upon 
the  veranda  had  somewhat  shaken  his  convictions 
in  regard  to  Julietta. 


386 


WOMEN 


“I  suppose  you’re  pleased  with  yourself,”  Mrs. 
Simms  said,  icily,  after  an  extended  silence. 

“I  couldn’t  decline,”  he  returned,  easily.  “You 
didn’t  give  me  a  chance  to.” 

“Hobart,  that’s  really  too  much!  You  stopped 
me — interrupted  me  when  I  was  in  the  very  act  of 
declining  for  you.” 

“That  was  the  reason,”  he  explained.  “I  couldn’t 
let  you  decline  for  me.  It  might  have  looked  as 
though  I  let  my  wife  do  embarrassing  things  for  me 
that  I  haven’t  backbone  enough  to  do  for  myself.” 

“ How  diplomatic ! ”  she  said.  “May  I  ask  your  real 
reason  for  accepting  her  invitation  after  what  I’d  just 
told  you  about  her.^  Perhaps,  though,  it  was  merely 
to  hurt  Mildred  and  irritate  me.  In  that  case,  you 
made  a  perfect  success  of  what  you  intended.” 

“It  wasn’t  precisely  that,”  he  laughed.  “For  one 
thing,  if  what  you  and  Mildred  believe  has  any  foun¬ 
dation,  why,  old  John  certainly  needs  a  chaperon; 
and,  for  another  thing,  I  wanted  the  chance  to  see 
for  myself  if  there  is  any  reason  to  believe  what  you 
told  me.” 

“Oh,  50.^”  She  uttered  a  little  cry  of  triumph, 
and  laughed  in  the  tone  of  her  outcry.  “So  you’re 
not  so  sure  as  you  were  a  little  while  ago,  when  you 


MRS.  C.’S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  387 


implied  that  my  mind  was  wandering!  So  you  see 
there  is  something  in  it.^” 

“Only  this:  I  admit  the  possibility  that  Julietta 
might  want  to  have  him  attached  to  her  as  a  sort  of 
providing  friend,  to  do  little  useful  things  for  her 
and - ” 

“‘Little  useful  things’?”  his  wife  said,  scornfully. 
“Don’t  you  understand  what  type  she  belongs  to? 
Only  a  few  minutes  ago  you  paid  her  caddy  for  her, 
and  John  rented  a  locker  for  her.  Last  week  he  got 
her  a  new  set  of  golf  clubs,  Mildred  told  me.  Julietta 
complained  of  her  old  ones,  and  he  sent  away  for 
the  most  expensive  clubs  you  can  get  in  the  country. 
When  she  said  you  put  your  friends  into  fortunes, 
she  meant  more  than  just  to  flatter  you  about  the 
fortune  you’ve  put  John  Tower  into;  she  meant  you 
to  begin  to  get  the  idea  into  your  head  that  it  would 
be  pleasant  some  day  to  put  her  into  one — or  her 
worthless  old  father,  perhaps!” 

Then,  as  Hobart  laughed  loudly  at  an  idea  appar¬ 
ently  so  far-fetched,  Anne  defended  it.  “Oh,  I 
know  it  was  only  her  impulse  and  not  deliberate,  just 
a  chance  shot  of  hers ;  but  she  never  misses  a  possibil¬ 
ity,  and  that  possibility  was  somewhere  in  the  back 
of  her  head.  Of  course,  it  isn’t  you,  but  John  that 


388 


WOMEN 


she’s  playing  for.  She’d  rather  have  played  for  you; 
but  she  didn’t  see  any  chance,  of  course.  She  dis¬ 
covered  John’s  weakness  and  did  see  the  chance 
with  him.” 

“What  weakness,  Anne.^” 

“Why,  the  poor  old  thing’s  childlike  acceptance 
of  women  at  the  face  value  they  put  upon  themselves, 
and  his  quaint  belief  that  they  say  everything  they 
mean  and  mean  everything  they  say — ^just  as  he 
does  himself.  Mildred’s  helpless  because  he’s  such 
a  helpless  idealist;  he  tells  her  the  only  thing  he 
can’t  bear  in  a  woman  is  when  she’s  so  small-minded 
as  to  speak  slightingly  of  any  other  woman!  All 
Mildred  can  do  is  to  suffer  and  not  speak.  I  never 
saw  anything  so  pitiful  as  what  she  did  when  you 
hurt  her  feelings  so  terribly.” 

“When  I  did  what?” 

“When  you  insulted  her  awhile  ago,”  Mrs.  Simms 
explained  with  calm  frigidity.  “She  knew  I’d  told 
you  what  she  was  suffering; — -I’d  just  told  her  I 
had.  And  then  she  had  not  only  to  listen  to  her 
husband  accepting  that  girl’s  overtures  for  another 
long  t^te-a-tete  with  him  to-morrow,  but  to  hear  you 
promising  to  lend  countenance  to  it  by  being  used 


MRS.  C.’S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  389 


again  as  you’ve  already  been  used  three  times.  It 
was  the  same  as  either  telling  Mildred  that  she’s  a 
fool,  imagining  the  whole  thing,  or  that  you  approve 
of  Julietta’s  little  plans  and  intend  to  lend  your  aid  to 
further  them.  You  might  as  well  have  slapped  my 
sister  in  the  face.” 

“Dear  me!”  he  exclaimed.  “Don’t  look  at  it 
that  way!  I  didn’t  mean - ” 

“Didn’t  you?”  Anne  had  no  compunctions  what¬ 
ever  in  punishing  him  to  the  best  of  her  ability. 
“You’d  already  mocked  her  for  suffering  what  no 
woman  in  her  position  could  hel^  suffering.  Then, 
in  addition  to  what  she  was  already  trying  to  bear 
and  not  show,  you  gave  her  some  more  to  bear — and 
she  couldn’t  trust  herself  to  speak;  she  could  only 
run  from  you!” 

This  was  indeed  a  new  light  upon  what  Hobart 
had  been  masculine  enough  to  think  a  mere  example 
of  woman’s  rudeness  to  woman;  and  in  that  light  the 
speechless  flight  of  the  unfortunate  Mildred  now  bore 
the  colour  of  true  pathos.  Moreover,  following  his 
awakened  doubts  of  Julietta,  his  wife’s  view  of  his 
conduct  began  to  be  uncomfortably  convincing.  He 
feared  that  he  was  going  to  be  remorseful. 


390 


WOMEN 


“Of  course  you  don’t  dream  I’m  not  fond  of  Mil¬ 
dred,”  he  said.  “I’ve  always  been  very - ” 

“You  show  it  strangely,”  Anne  interrupted.  She 
spoke  with  no  softening  of  her  resentment,  though 
what  she  felt  for  her  sister  brought  to  her  eyes  the 
tears  she  had  been  withholding,  and  he  saw  them  as  a 
street  light  flashed  through  the  glass  of  the  window 
beside  her.  “Mildred’s  the  kind  of  woman  people 
do  hurt,  I  suppose.  She’s  so  gentle  and  harmless 
herself,  it  must  be  a  temptation !  She’s  always  been 
so  lovely  to  yoUy  I  suppose  you  couldn’t  resist  it.” 

“Oh,  look  here!”  he  protested,  and  his  fears  were 
realized;  he  was  already  remorseful.  “You  know  I 
wouldn’t  have  hurt - ” 

“Then  why  did  you.^” 

“Well,  if  I  did,”  he  said,  desperately; — “and,  con¬ 
found  it,  I’m  afraid  maybe  I  did — I  suppose  it 
was  because  jealousy  is  the  kind  of  suffering  that 
onlookers  always  have  the  least  sympathy  with.  I’ll 
beg  her  pardon,  and,  if  I  caused  her  pain.  I’ll  try  to 
make  it  up  to  her.” 

“How  can  you  do  that?” 

“I  don’t  know,”  he  said,  regretfully.  “I’ll  just 
have  to  try  to  find  some  way.” 

“That  wouldn’t  be  very  easy,”  his  wife  said. 


MRS.  C.’S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  S91 


“Could  you  get  her  husband  back  for  her,  if  this 
girl  gets  him  away.?^’’ 

“But  that  is  nonsense,’’  he  protested.  “Julietta 
Voss  couldn’t  get  that  far  with  old  John — not  if  she 
had  all  eternity  to  try  in!” 

This  was  the  position  he  took,  and  he  maintained 
it  during  the  rest  of  their  drive,  and  at  intervals 
during  the  rather  stately  dinner  for  two  people  that 
was  the  evening  custom  of  their  big  country  house. 
After  dinner,  however,  as  he  sat  down  to  coffee  with 
his  wife  in  the  library,  he  was  forced  to  adopt  another 
view.  His  sister-in-law  came  in  suddenly  and 
dramatically,  the  fur  cloak  she  had  thrown  about 
her  for  a  hasty  drive  falling  to  the  floor  as  she  entered 
the  door. 

Anne  sprang  up  from  her  easy  chair.  “Mildred! 
What’s  happened?” 

For  Mildred’s  pallor,  and  her  visible  struggle  for 
composure,  as  she  stood  with  both  hands  upon  the 
back  of  a  chair  to  steady  herself,  left  no  doubt  that 
she  came  because  of  some  definite  happening. 

Hobart  moved  to  withdraw.  “I  imagine  you 
and  Anne  might  like  to  have  a  talk  together,  Mildred. 
I’ll  just - ” 

“No,”  Mildred  said  in  a  strained  and  plaintive 


WOMEN 


39^ 

voice,  “I’ve  come  for  help.  You’ve  both  got  to 
help  me  somehow,  because  I  can’t  stand  it.  I  really 
can  t. 

He  was  distressed  for  her.  “Anything — anything 
in  the  world - ” 

“I  hope  you  mean  it,”  Mildred  said,  staring  at 
him  with  wide  and  desperate  eyes.  “If  any  one 
can  do  anything  to  help  me  it’s  you,  Hobart,  because 

t 

you’ve  always  been  able  to  do  everything  you’ve  ever 
wanted  to  do.  Maybe  you  won’t  want  to  help  me.” 

“What?”  he  cried.  “My  dear  girl!” 

“No,”  she  said,  pathetically; — “maybe  you  won’t 
want  to.  After  the  way  you  treated  me  before  them 
at  the  club,  I  shouldn’t  be  sure  you’d  want  to.” 

“My  dear  sister,  don’t  think  that,”  he  begged. 
“I  see  I  did  hurt  you,  and  I  only  ask  a  chance  to 
make  up  to  you  for  it.  What  can  I  do?” 

“Nothing!”  his  wife  said,  taking  the  reply  into 
her  own  mouth,  as  she  put  an  arm  about  her  sister 
and  stood  facing  him  scornfully.  “Nothing  that 
will  make  up  to  her  for  what  you  did.  That’s  some¬ 
thing  you  can  never  do,  because  even  you  can’t 
recall  and  do  again  what  has  passed.” 

Troubled,  admiring  Anne  for  the  proud  anger 
of  her  attitude,  and  secretly  pleased  with  her  “even 


MRS.  C.’S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  393 


you,”  he  gave  her  a  queer  look  in  which  there  was  a 
gleam  of  doggedness.  “I’ll  try,  at  any  rate,”  he  said; 
and  then,  more  casually,  he  addressed  his  sister- 
in-law;  “You  drove  over  alone,  Mildred.?” 

“As  soon  as  John  left  the  house  after  dinner,” 
she  said.  “I  kept  up  till  he  went,  and  then  I  found 
I  couldn’t  bear  it  any  longer — I  had  to  ask  for  help. 
After  he  put  her  into  the  car  with  me  at  the  club, 
he  asked  me  why  I  was  so  quiet,  and  I  said  I  had  a 
bad  headache; — it  was  true  enough,  too.  She  said 
that  was  ‘too  bad’  and  immediately  proposed  that 
we  should  ‘all  three’  drive  into  town  after  dinner  to  a 
cabaret  vaudeville  and  dance  and  late  supper!” 

“She  did?”  Hobart  asked.  “Not  just  after  you’d 
told  them  your  head  ached?” 

“Yes.  She  said  the  way  to  cure  a  headache  was 
to  ‘be  gay  and  forget  it.’” 

“What  did  you  tell  her,  Mildred?” 

“I  said  I  couldn’t  and  that  John  couldn’t  go  either, 
because  he  had  to  be  in  his  office  early  to-morrow 
morning.  He  said  no ;  he  didn’t  need  more  than  three 
or  four  hours’  sleep,  and  he  would  be  only  too  glad 
to  escort  Julietta,  since  if  I  had  a  headache,  I’d 
probably  go  to  bed,  and  he’d  have  nothing  to  do.  At 
dinner  I  asked  him  please  not  to  go;  'please  to  stay 


394 


WOMEN 


with  me,  instead.  He  said  in  his  kindest  way  that 
he’d  be  glad  to,  any  other  night,  but  it  was  impossible 
this  evening  since  he’d  ‘promised  Julietta,’  and 
couldn’t  possibly  break  a  promise.  So  he  went — 
and  I  found  I  couldn’t  stay  in  the  house  and  think 
it  over  any  longer.  Hobart,  you  mustn’t  go  out 
there  and  help  them  pretend  to  play  golf  to-morrow.” 

“Very  well,”  he  said,  gravely.  “I’ll  do  whatever 
you  wish.  But  isn’t  it  just  possible  you’d  rather 
have  me  with  them.^  If  Julietta  really  is  the  de¬ 
signing  person  you  believe  she  is - ” 

“If!”  Mildred  cried  with  sudden  loudness.  “‘If’ 
she  is!  You  don’t  understand,  Hobart.  This  is 
what  happened  in  the  car  just  before  we  reached  her 
house  to-night; — it  happens  all  the  time.  She  made 
a  gesture — she  always  talks  with  gestures — and  her 
hand  smashed  against  the  door-frame  and  broke 
the  crystal  of  her  wrist-watch.  She  said  she  was 
sure  the  works  were  broken,  too.  It  was  a  plain  gold 
watch,  old  and  not  very  valuable,  but  she  made  a 
great  lamentation  over  it.  John  took  it  from  her, 
put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  said  that  since  it  was  broken 
in  our  car  it  was  our  place  to  restore  it;  she  should 
have  a  new  one  as  near  like  it  as  possible  to-morrow; 
— ^it  would  be  the  ‘greatest  privilege’  to  obtain  it 


MES.  C.’S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  395 


for  her!  She  knew  that  was  just  what  he’d  do,  and 
she  broke  it  on  purpose,  of  course.” 

“Mildred,  you  really  believe - ” 

She  stopped  him.  “You  don’t  understand.  It 
goes  on  all  the  time.  And  if  she  does  this  much 
under  my  very  eyes,  what  doesn’t  she  get  out  of  him 
when  they’re  alone  together?” 

“There  might  be  something  reassuring  in  that,” 
Hobart  suggested.  “If  she  spends  her  energies 
getting  these  trifles  from  him — because  of  course 
that’s  all  they  are  to  a  man  in  old  John’s  position — 
doesn’t  that  look  as  if  her  designs  might  be  limited 
to - ” 

“No,  it  does  not,”  Mrs.  Simms  interrupted, 
promptly. 

“But - ” 

“No,”  his  wife  repeated.  “Don’t  you  see  that 
the  very  fact  of  her  wanting  the  trifles  would  make 
her  want  something  a  great  deal  more  important, 
and  that’s  to  be  in  a  position  where. she  wouldn’t 
have  to  work  for  them?” 

» 

“Well,  then,”  her  husband  returned; — “if  she  ex¬ 
pects  to  reach  that  position  by  supplanting  Mildred, 
she  has  a  ridiculous  ambition!” 

“Is  it?”  Mildred  asked,  unhappily.  “If  John 


396 


WOMEN 


were  any  other  kind  of  man,  it  might  be  ridiculous.” 
Tears  came  into  her  eyes  that  had  been  dry  until 
now;  but  she  struggled  with  herself  and  kept  more 
from  coming.  “Isn’t  it  ironical?”  she  said.  “The 
very  goodness  of  such  a  man  as  John,  his  simple 
kindness,  his  idealizing — the  very  things  I’ve  cared 
for  most  in  him — that  they  should  be  his  weakness 
and  just  what  leaves  him  open  to  the  easy  cajoling 
of  a  crude  trespasser  like  Julietta  Voss!  Don’t 
you  understand,  Hobart?  I  know  you  didn’t  under¬ 
stand  this  afternoon,  but  don’t  you  now?  You 
thought  I  was  jealous  of  him,  I  know.  Perhaps  I 
am;  perhaps  I  do  want  to  keep  him  for  myself; 
but  I’m  his  wife;  why  shouldn’t  I?  And  I  know  I’m 
better  for  him  than  she’d  be.  Oh,  don’t  you  under¬ 
stand?  I  want  to  protect  him!” 

Hobart  came  to  her  and  took  her  hand.  “ Mildred, 
old  John  hasn’t  the  remotest  idea  you’re  suffering 
like  this.  You’ve  got  to  tell  him  about  it.” 

“But  I  can’/,”  she  cried.  “I  can’t  let  him  think 
I’m  just  a  jealous  woman,  and  what  else  would  he 
think  of  me  if  I  told  him  the  truth  about  her?  That’s 
why  I  don’t  want  you  to  go  out  there  with  them 
to-morrow,  Hobart.” 


MRS.  C.’S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  397 


“Of  course  I  won’t,  since  you  ask  it,”  he  said, 

mystified.  “Yet  I  don’t  see - ” 

“You  don’t?”  his  wife  asked,  sharply;  and,  in 
obvious  pity  for  a  poor  understanding,  characteris¬ 
tically  manlike,  she  explained  what  she  had  instantly 
divined — her  unhappy  sister’s  reason  for  coming 
to  ask  him  to  help  her.  “Julietta  counts  on  your 
being  with  them  as  the  answer  to  the  talk  about 
them.  She  intends  to  have  a  defence  against  the 
talk — an  answer  that  will  help  to  keep  people  on  her 
side — and  if  you  break  your  engagement  without  any 
explanation  she’ll  wonder  what  it  means,  and  if  we 
haven’t  asked  you  to  do  it;  and  she’ll  get  John  to  find 
out.  He’ll  ask  you  why  you  didn’t  come.  Then 
you  can  tell  him  you  stayed  away  because  you’re 
troubled  about  what  Mildred  may  think.  It’s  all 
you  need  say,  and  he’ll  speak  to  Mildred  about  it. 
That  will  give  her  a  chance  to  talk  to  him.” 

“Is  it  what  you  want,  Mildred?”  he  asked. 

“Yes,”  she  said.  “It’s  the  only  thing  I  can  think 
of.  It  gives  me  a  chance  to  talk  to  him,  that’s  all. 
It  may  make  him  despise  me,  anyhow.  I  don’t 
know  what  he’ll  say,  but  I’ve  got  to  do  it; — I  can’t 
go  on  any  longer  not  saying  anything!  Perhaps” — 


398 


WOMEN 


her  breath  caught  in  her  throat,  and  for  a  moment 
she  could  not  speak — “perhaps  he’ll  ask  me  for  a 
divorce.  Well,  if  he  does.  I’ll  give  it  to  him!” 

“No,  no !  ”  her  sister  cried.  “You  said  you  wanted 
to  protect  him !  ” 

“If  he  doesn’t  love  me  any  more,  I  couldnH,’* 
Mildred  sobbed,  for  her  struggle  to  control  herself 
was  lost  now,  and  her  weeping  became  convulsive. 
“Don’t  you  see  I  couldn’t?  You  can’t  protect  any¬ 
body  that’s  tired  of  you.  If  he’s  tired  of  you,  how 
can  you  protect  him  against  someone  he’s  in  love 
with?” 

“My  dear  sister!”  Hobart  begged  her,  deeply 
moved.  “Don’t  think  it.  Old  John  isn’t  in  love 
with  Julietta  Voss  any  more  than  I  am!” 

“How  do  I  know?^*  she  sobbed.  “He  acts  as  if 
he  is.  What  other  way  is  there  to  tell?  How  do  I 
know?”  And,  clinging  to  his  hand,  she  sank  down 
into  the  chair  beside  which  she  had  been  standing. 
“Oh,  Hobart,  you  must  help  me;  you  must  try  your 
best  to  help  me!” 

“Indeed  I  will,”  he  promised,  with  all  the  earnest¬ 
ness  that  was  in  him.  “I’ll  do  anything  in  the  world, 
Mildred — absolutely  anything!” 

He  meant  it  indeed;  but  over  the  bowed  form  of 


MRS.  C.’S  OLDEST  DAUGHTER  399 


the  unhappy  lady  who  clung  to  his  hand,  entreating 
him,  he  looked  into  the  denouncing  and  skeptical 
eyes  of  his  wife.  She  needed  no  words,  nor  anything 
except  those  implacable  eyes  of  hers,  to  tell  him  that 
his  own  recent  behaviour  was  in  great  part  responsi¬ 
ble  for  the  misery  before  them,  and  that  he  lacked 
the  power  to  make  up  to  Mildred  for  what  he  had 
done. 

He  adored  his  wife,  and  he  took  that  look  of  hers  as 
a  challenge. 


XXX 

MRS.  Cromwell’s  sons-in-law 


He  was  far  from  convinced,  however,  that 
Mildred’s  necessity  was  as  tragic  as  she 
believed.  If  it  was,  he  would  prove 
to  his  wife  that  he  was  a  man  of  more  resources 
than  she  thought;  but  it  still  seemed  to  him  that  old 
John  Tower  could  be  in  no  danger  from  the  simple 
wiles  of  Julietta.  For  Hobart  had  accepted  the 
theory  that  Julietta  was  wily;  he  had  finally  gone  that 
far  unconditionally  before  the  unhappy  evening  was 
over;  and  he  even  wondered  why  he  had  hitherto 
been  so  blind  when  he  looked  at  Julietta.  But  as 
for  steady  old  John  Tower — “No,”  he  said  to  himself, 
as  he  drove  into  the  city  the  next  morning.  “Abso¬ 
lutely  impossible!”  Yet  in  this  emphasis  there  was 
that  faint  shade  of  doubt  so  often  present  when 
people  buttress  their  convictions  with  “absolutely”; 
so  he  decided  to  buttress  himself  further  by  means 

of  a  diplomatic  experimental  talk  with  old  John. 

400 


MRS.  C.’S  SONS-IN-LAW 


401 


Arrived  in  the  heart  of  the  city  at  the  great  building 
that  was  his  own,  with  all  its  thirty  stories  obedient 
to  his  five  feet  three  inches,  a  Giant  Jinn  enslaved 
by  a  little  master  enchanter,  he  went,  not  to  his  own 
offices,  but  to  old  John’s.  “I  just  dropped  in  for 
a  morning  cigar,”  he  explained. 

His  brother-in-law  received  him  heartily. 

“My  dear  Hobart,  this  is  indeed  a  pleasure.  Will 
you  smoke  one  of  my  cigars  or  one  of  your  own? 
I’m  afraid  yours  are  much  the  better.” 

“No,  they’re  not,”  Hobart  laughed.  “Mine  are 
much  the  worse.  Your  taste  is  a  lot  better  than 
mine  about  pretty  nearly  everything.”  As  he  spoke 
he  took  a  long  cigar  from  the  box  that  Tower  was 
offering  him,  and  lighted  it.  “You  have  better 

taste  in  cigars,  better  taste  in  furniture - ”  Here 

he  seated  himself  in  one  of  the  set  of  seventeenth- 
century  English  chairs  that  helped  to  make  the 
room  the  pleasant  place  it  was.  “You  even  have 
better  taste  on  the  golf  links,”  he  concluded,  chuck¬ 
ling  as  if  reminiscently. 

“How  so?  You  play  a  better  game.  You  don’t 
allude  to  my  apparel  for  it,  I  imagine.” 

“That,  too,”  Hobart  said.  “But  I  was  thinking 
of  something  else.” 


402 


WOMEN 


“Of  what,  my  dear  Hobart?” 

Hobart  laughed,  gave  him  a  look  of  friendly 
raillery,  mixed  with  jocose  admiration,  and  said: 
“Don’t  you  think  I’m  a  good  deal  of  a  dunderhead? 
On  your  word,  don’t  you,  old  John?” 

Old  John,  beaming  genially  and  amused  by  his 
caller’s  question,  but  puzzled  by  it,  laughed  with 
him.  “On  my  word  then,  no.  I  haven’t  the 
slightest  conception  of  what  you  mean.” 

“Just  think  of  it!”  Hobart  chuckled.  “Here  we  go, 
afternoon  after  afternoon,  you  and  I,  out  to  the  links; 
and  every  single  time,  when  we  get  there,  I  go  roving 
round  the  course  virtually  all  by  myself,  while  you 
put  in  the  time  with  Julietta!  You  and  she  keep 
together  and  play  the  same  ball — and  what  do  I  play? 
It  seems  to  me  I  play  the  Lone  Fisherman !  Honestly, 
do  you  think  it’s  fair?” 

“Fair?”  Old  John  had  become  grave,  and  the 
other  was  surprised  and  interested  to  observe  that 
a  tinge  of  red  was  slowly  mounting  in  his  cheeks. 
“Let  me  understand  you,  Hobart,”  he  said.  “You 
mean  that  I’ve  been  monopolizing  Julietta?” 

“Rather!”  Hobart  continued  his  rallying  jocosity, 
though  inwardly  he  was  disturbed  by  the  spreading 
of  that  tinge  of  red  over  his  brother-in-law’s  face. 


MRS.  C.’S  SONS-IN-LAW  403 

“Don’t  you  think  it’s  about  time  I  had  a  share  of 
feminine  camaraderie  in  our  outdoor  sports?” 

“You  mean,  Hobart,  that  this  afternoon  you’d 
prefer  to  play  the  same  ball  with  Julietta  and  have 
me  play  against  you?” 

This  was  not  the  question  Hobart  had  desired  to 
evoke;  and  his  jocosity  departed  from  him  suddenly. 

“Well - ”  he  said.  Then,  as  his  shrewd  eyes  took 

note  again  of  old  John’s  rosy  face  and  of  his  gravity — 
already  troubled  as  by  some  forthcoming  disappoint¬ 
ment — the  Napoleonic  Hobart  came  to  one  of  those 
swift  and  clear  resolutions,  the  capacity  for  which 
had  made  possible  his  prodigious  business  career 
during  what  was  still  almost  his  youth.  Old  John 
was  indeed  in  danger,  although  old  John  was  “too 
innocent”  to  know  it,  himself.  And  in  the  very 
instant  of  this  realization,  Hobart  decided  that  he 
had  found  the  opportunity  to  take  up  his  wife’s 
challenge  and  atone  in  full  for  his  fault  to  her  sister. 

“Why — why,  yes,”  he  said,  slowly.  “Don’t  you 
think  it’s  about  time?  You  wouldn’t  mind  very 
much,  would  you?” 

Old  John’s  large  and  well-favoured  face  grew  red¬ 
der  than  ever,  though  otherwise  it  was  expressive 
of  the  most  naively  plain  regret.  “Ah — suppose 


404  WOMEN 

it  would  be  fair,”  lie  said.  “Julietta  is  attractive,  as 
you  say.  In  fact,  I  believe  she  is  the  most  attractive 
girl  I  have  ever  known.  I  value  her  friendship  very 
highly,  Hobart.  I  came  into  town  to  a  cabaret  with 
her  last  night,  and  neither  of  us  knew  anybody  in  the 
place.  We  danced  together  and  had  a  little  supper, 
and  danced  some  more,  and  talked — altogether  until 
about  two  o’clock,  I  think,  Hobart.  And  in  all  that 
time  I  never  had  a  dull  moment — ^not  one!  She  is 
a  most  attractive  girl,  as  you  say,  and  I  believe  there’s 
perhaps  some  justice  in  your  idea  that  you’re  entitled 
to  more  of  her  companionship  than  you’ve  been  en¬ 
joying — for  this  afternoon  at  least.  Since  you  put 
it  as  you  do,  suppose  we  arrange,  then,  that  you 
and  she  play  the  same  ball  this  afternoon  and  I  play 
against  the  two  of  you.” 

“I  believe  that  would  be  fair,”  Hobart  said,  his 
eyes  sidelong  upon  old  John,  “It’s  settled  then.” 
He  rose  to  go. 

“I  suppose  so.”  Tower’s  gravity  increased;  but 
he  brightened  at  a  thought  that  came  to  him  as  his 
departing  caller  reached  the  door.  “I  suppose,  Ho¬ 
bart,  to-morrow — to-morrow - ’  ’ 

“To-morrow  what?”  Hobart  inquired,  staring  at 
him. 


MBS.  C.’S  SONS^IN-LAW 


405 

“Ah — to-morrow - ”  Old  John  hesitated,  then 

finished  hopefully:  “We  might  return  to  our  former 
arrangement?  ” 

“To-morrow?  Oh,  yes,  certainly — to-morrow 
we’ll  return  to  our  former  arrangement,”  Hobart 
said;  and  as  he  passed  through  the  anteroom  beyond 
he  murmured  the  word  incredulously  to  himself, 
“‘To-morrow.’”  He  laughed  shortly,  and  in  his 
imagination  continued  the  dialogue  with  old  John. 
“Day  after  to-morrow,  too,  I  suppose?  And  the 
day  after  that?  And  the  next,  and  the  next?  Why, 
yes!  Why  not?”  Then  he  became  serious.  “You 
poor  dear  old  thing,  there’s  got  not  to  he  any  ‘to¬ 
morrow’!” 

He  took  the  affair  into  his  own  hands  for  complete 
settlement;  and  at  noon  he  went  to  a  jeweller’s  and 
bought  the  most  expensive  wrist-watch  in  the  place 
— a  trifling  miracle  of  platinum  intricately  glittering 
with  excellent  white  diamonds.  He  put  the  little 
packet  in  his  coat  pocket,  and  at  about  five  o’clock 
that  afternoon  he  showed  it  to  Miss  Julietta 
Voss. 

Old  John  Tower,  absent-minded  and  not  playing 
well,  had  driven  his  ball  into  a  thicket  fifty  yards 
away  from  where  Hobart  and  Julietta  had  paused; — 


406 


WOMEN 


he  was  in  the  underbrush,  solemnly  searching,  with 
his  caddy. 

“Something  for  you,”  Hobart  said,  tossing  the 
little  packet  up  and  down  in  his  hand. 

She  looked  surprised.  “For  me?  From  you?” 

“Yes.” 

“What  is  it?” 

“Oh,  nothing  to  speak  of,”  he  replied,  airily.  “I 
just  happened  to  hear  you  broke  that  gold  wrist- 
watch  you  usually  wear - 

“I  did,”  she  said.  “But  John  found  another  for 
me  to-day — a  new  one  exactly  like  it.”  She  dis¬ 
played  her  left  forearm  for  inspection.  “Isn’t  it 
lovely  of  him  always  to  be  so  dear  about  all  the  little 
thoughtful  things?” 

“I  don’t  know,”  Hobart  said;  and  he  quoted  an 
ancient  bit  of  slang:  “There  might  be  others!” 

She  shook  her  head.  “Not  like  him!” 

“Are  you  sure,  Julietta?”  He  gave  her  a  quick 
and  serious  look  that  increased  her  surprise.  “You 
might  at  least  take  a  glance  round  you  to  see.” 

“What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about,  Hobart 
Simms?” 

At  that  he  gave  her  another  quick  glance — a  per¬ 
sonal  glance,  as  it  might  have  been  defined,  since 


MRS.  C.’S  SONS-IN-LAW 


407 


to  Julietta  it  seemed  to  convey  an  unexpected  feeling 
concerning  herself  and  himself.  Then  he  looked 
wistfully  away,  and  when  he  spoke,  a  moment  later, 
his  voice  had  not  the  briskness  customary  in  his 
speech; — it  was,  on  the  contrary,  perceptibly  un¬ 
steady.  “Julietta,  IVe  been — well,  don’t  you  sup¬ 
pose  a  man  might  some  day  get  a  little  tired  of  being 
— I  mean  to  say,  here  I  am  with  you,  day  after  day 
— yet  really  not  with  you.  You’re  so  busy  noticing 
old  John  all  the  time,  you  never  take  time  off  to  be 
a  little  friendly  with  anybody  else,” 

She  caught  her  breath,  staring  at  him  wonderingly. 
“But  you — you  never  showed  me  you  wanted  me  to,” 
she  said,  slowly. 

“Didn’t  I?”  He  turned  to  her,  smiling,  and  as 
he  spoke  he  removed  the  paper  wrappings  of  the 
small  packet.  “Other  people  might  want  to  do  some 
of  the  Tittle  thoughtful  things’  too — ^if  they  ever 
got  a  chance.” 

He  put  into  her  hand  the  green  velvet  box  that  had 
been  inside  the  wrapping,  and  she  opened  it  curiously; 
— then  suppressed  an  outcry. 

“Good  Heaven!”  she  gasped,  and  stared  at  him. 
“Of  course  you  know  I  couldn’t  accept  a  thing  like 

thisr 


408 


WOMEN 


“Why  not?  You  would  from  John.” 

“But - ” 

“You’re  wearing  the  one  he  gave  you.” 

“Yes,  but  this - ” 

“It’s  nothing,”  he  said.  “Of  course,  if  you  don’t 
like  it - ” 

Sorrowfully  he  extended  his  hand  to  take  back  the 
little  green  velvet  box  from  her;  but  she  retained  it 
and  stood  staring  at  him,  amazed  and  also  profoundly 
thoughtful.  Like  Hobart,  she  was  a  person  who 
could  make  quick  decisions. 

“I  never  dreamed  of  this,”  she  said.  “I  thought 
you  only  came  along  with  us  because  you  thought 
it  was  a  good  course  and  because  John  asked  you.” 

“And  he  asked  me  because  you  made  him,” 
Hobart  added.  “And  the  reason  you  did  was 
because  you  wanted  me  for  a  chaperon.” 

She  laughed  excitedly.  “You  don’t  seem  con¬ 
tented  with  the  r61e,  I  must  say !  ” 

“How  could  I?” 

“I  never  dreamed!”  she  said,  and  she  looked 
at  the  watch  upon  her  wrist  and  at  that  in  the  green 
velvet  box.  “Queer!”  she  laughed.  “Now  I  have 
two!” 


MRS.  C.’S  SONS-IN-LAW  409 

“Would  you  mind  wearing  mine?”  Hobart  asked, 
and  he  laughed  with  her. 

“But  he’ll  see  it!” 

Hobart’s  laughter  became  gayer  and  louder. 
“What  if  he  does?” 

“Perhaps  you’re  right,”  Julietta  said,  and  as  she 
took  the  magnificent  tiny  miracle  from  the  box, 
there  began  to  shine  in  her  eyes  an  exultation  that 
could  be  ruthless.  “Perhaps  I’d  better  wear  yours 
and  keep  his  in  my  pocket.” 

“Perhaps  you’d  better,”  he  agreed,  still  laughing. 
“Don’t  let  him  see  the  joke’s  on  him  till  we  get  back 
to  the  clubhouse,  though.  If  he  asks  you  about 
it,  don’t  tell  him  till  then; — I  want  to  get  away 
first.” 

“  Yes,”  she  assented,  thoughtfully.  “Perhaps  that 
would  be  just  as  well.” 


XXXI 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  DINNER 


WHEN  he  got  home  from  the  country  club, 
something  less  than  an  hour  later,  his  wife 
told  him  coldly  that  he  seemed  to  be  in 
high  spirits.  “You  appear  to  have  the  happy  faculty 
of  not  being  depressed  by  the  troubles  of  people 
close  to  you,”  she  added.  “However,  your  gaiety 
may  be  useful  this  evening,  at  Mother’s.” 

“At  your  mother’s?  ”  he  inquired.  “Are  we  going 
there?” 

She  looked  at  him  sternly.  “What  have  you  been 
doing  that  makes  you  forget  such  a  thing?  It’s 
Father’s  and  Mother’s  thirty-eighth  wedding  anni¬ 
versary.” 

“ So  it  is ! ”  he  exclaimed.  “I’d  forgotten  all  about 
it.” 

“Obviously.  You’d  better  hurry  and  dress,  be¬ 
cause  the  dinner’s  to  be  very  early  on  account  of  the 
younger  grandchildren; — ^I  sent  them  half  an  hour 
ago.”  And,  as  he  did  not  move,  she  added,  “Please 
get  ready  right  away.” 


410 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  DINNER  411 


He  still  hesitated,  for  in  his  absorption  in  his  plan 
to  atone  to  his  sister-in-law  and  take  up  Anne’s 
challenge  he  had  forgotten  more  than  the  anniversary 
dinner.  He  had  forgotten  to  consider  in  what 
terms  he  would  eventually  inform  his  wife  of  that 
plan  and  what  already  appeared  to  be  its  successful 
beginnings.  The  present  seemed  to  be  a  wise  time 
to  say  something  about  it;  but  he  found  himself  in  a 
difficulty.  Face  to  face  with  his  wife,  especially 
in  her  present  state  of  mind,  which  was  plainly  still 
critical  of  him,  he  was  convinced  that  she  would 
prove  unsympathetic.  He  decided  to  postpone  all 
explanations,  at  least  until  they  were  on  their  way 
to  his  father-in-law’s  house. 

But,  alone  in  the  car  with  her,  when  the  postponed 
moment  seemed  to  have  arrived,  he  found  the  diffi¬ 
culty  no  less  discouraging.  He  made  an  effort, 
however;  but  he  put  it  off  so  long  that  when  he  made 
it  they  were  almost  at  their  destination. 

“Oh,  about  that  interview  I’m  supposed  to  have 

with  old  John,  to-morrow  morning - ” 

“Yes,”  she  said.  “When  he  asks  you  why  you 
didn’t  join  him  and  Julietta  at  the  club  this  after¬ 
noon,  you’ll  not  weaken,  I  trust.” 

“‘Weaken’?” 


41^ 


WOMEN 


“Oh,  you’ll  protest  now  that  you  won’t,  I  know,” 
she  said.  “But  men  are  sympathetic — with  other 
men,  especially  in  ‘affairs’ — and  John’s  terribly 
sensitive.  I  shouldn’t  be  surprised  if  you  failed  to 
carry  it  through.  I  shouldn’t  at  all!” 

“But — ^but  of  course  I  shall,”  Hobart  said,  before 
he  knew  what  he  was  saying.  It  was  not  what  he 
wished  to  say;  but  he  found  himself  apparently  with¬ 
out  control  of  his  own  speech,  for  the  moment;  and 
he  realized  that  it  would  now  be  more  difficult  than 
ever  to  make  the  needed  explanation.  He  attempted 
it  feebly,  however.  “That  is  to  say - ”  he  be¬ 

gan.  “I  mean — ah — ^suppose  such  an  interview 
shouldn’t - ” 

The  car  stopped. 

“We’re  here,”  Anne  said.  “I  hope  you’ll  be  as 
thoughtful  as  you  can  of  Mildred.  And  please  don’t 
be  too  cordial  to  John.  Let  him  begin  to  feel  what 
you  think  about  him.” 

But  Hobart’s  determination,  as  he  followed  his 
wife  into  his  father-in-law’s  gaily  illuminated  house, 
was  to  be  as  cordial  as  possible  to  old  John  and 
to  seek  the  first  private  opportunity  to  request 
him  not  to  mention  their  game  of  the  afternoon. 
Unfortunately  the  anniversary  dinner  was  already 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  DINNER  413 


in  jovial  motion; — ^Anne  and  her  husband  were  late; 
the  adults  of  the  party  had  yielded  to  the  clamours  of 
the  children  and  had  just  gone  out  to  the  dining¬ 
room.  Hobart  found  himself  between  Mildred  and 
Cornelia,  across  the  wide  table  from  his  brother-in- 
law. 

Old  John  was  silent,  and  his  sensitive  face  wore 
such  visible  depression  that  presently  his  father-in 
law  began  to  rally  him  upon  it.  “Good  gracious, 
John,  this  is  a  party,  not  the  bedside  of  a  sick  friend! 
Why  don’t  you  eat,  or  laugh,  or  anyhow  say  some¬ 
thing?  You  and  Mildred  both  seem  to  think  it’s 
a  horrible  thing  to  be  present  at  a  celebration  of  two 
people’s  having  been  happily  married  for  thirty-eight 
years.  Is  that  what  makes  you  feel  so  miserable?” 

“No,  not  at  all,”  John  replied,  gloomily.  “I 
wasn’t  thinking  of  that.  My  mind  was  on  other 
matters.”  And,  being  the  singular  soul  he  was,  and 
of  such  a  guileless  straightforwardness,  he  looked 
across  the  table  at  his  brother-in-law.  “I  was 
thinking  of  our  golf  game,”  he  said,  to  that  gentle¬ 
man’s  acute  alarm.  “I  mean  the  one  this  afternoon, 
Hobart.” 

Hobart  heard  from  the  chair  next  upon  his  right 
the  subdued  and  lamentable  exclamation  uttered 


414 


WOMEN 


by  Mildred;  but  what  fascinated  his  paling  gaze 
was  the  expression  of  his  wife,  seated  beside  old 
John.  She  looked  at  her  husband  for  a  moment  of 
great  intensity; — then  she  turned  to  Tower. 

“So.^”  she  said,  lightly.  “Did  Hobart  play  with 
you  and  Julietta  again  to-day?” 

“He  played  with  Julietta,”  old  John  explained, 
and  in  his  noble  simplicity  he  continued,  to  his 
brother-in-law’s  horror,  “7  didn’t  seem  to  be  needed. 
I’ve  been  very  fond  of  Julietta,  very  fond  indeed  of 
Julietta.  She  broke  her  watch  in  our  car  yesterday, 
and  so  I  took  her  a  new  one  this  afternoon  and  gave 
it  to  her  before  we  began  to  play.  Hobart  brought 
her  one,  too;  and  she  took  mine  off  and  wore  his. 
The  one  I  brought  her  was  an  ordinary  little  gold  one; 
but  his  was  platinum  and  diamonds — it  must  have 
cost  a  remarkable  sum.  It  was  very  generous  and 
kind  of  Hobart,  because  Julietta  isn’t  well  off;  but 
the  way  she  took  it  made  me  feel  peculiarly  disap¬ 
pointed  in  her.  She  evidently  considers  only  the 
relative  financial  value  of  gifts,  and  not  the  spirit. 
She  was  quite  different  in  her  manner  toward  me. 
I  cannot  say  that  I  value  her  friendship  as  I  did.” 

“You  don’t?”  Anne  said;  and  she  laughed  ex¬ 
citedly.  “Don’t  you  mean  you’ve  decided  she 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  DINNER  415 


values  my  husband’s  friendship  more  than  you 
thought  she  did?” 

The  unhappy  Hobart,  upon  whom  the  wrong  he 
had  done  to  Julietta  thus  already  began  to  be  avenged, 
made  an  effort  to  speak;  but  beneath  the  table  he  felt 
a  warm  hand  upon  his  knee,  pressing  warningly. 
It  was  Mildred’s. 

*‘Wait!”  she  whispered,  rapturously.  ‘T  under¬ 
stand.  I’ll  help  you  to  talk  to  her  later.  It  will 
be  terribly  difficult,  but  I’ll  do  what  I  can  for  you — 
you  angel!” 


THE  END 


V'  >^.  . 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBAHR 


3  0112  003179428 


